/^^^ 


STEPHEN   DANE 


BY 


AMANDA    M.  DOUGLAS, 


Of  the  building  of  life  God  is  the  architect,  and  man  the  contractor. 
God  has  one  plan,  and  man  another:  is  it  strange  there  are  clashinga 
and  collisions  ? 

II.  W.  BEECIIEB. 


BOSTON: 
LEE     AND     SHEPARD. 

1867. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  Jn  tho  year  18C7,  by 

LEE    AND    SHEPARD, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


Stereotyped  at  the  Ration  Stereotype  Foundiy, 
It  Spring  Lime. 


Pret«work  to  John  U'ilson  :nnl  Sun. 


DEDICATED 


LOUISE   CHANDLER  MOULTON, 


•WITH  THE  BEST  A  FRIEND  CA2x   GIVE,— LOVE. 


2068221 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTKB  PAOB 

I.  COMING  TO  LIFE 7 

II.  TANGLED  PATHS 24 

III.  FIGHTING  WITH  FATE.      .        .        .        .        .        .  44 

IV.  BY  THE  RIVER 60 

V.  AT  THE  STAKE 77 

VI.  SAVED 99 

VII.  THE  NEW  DAWN 121 

VIII."  HOPE 141 

IX.  LOVE.        .                 165 

X.  Two  WOMEN 185 

XL  SAD  HEARTS 204 

XII.  JOE'S  ATONEMENT 225 

XIII.  HOPE  AND  STEPHEN 242 


STEPHEN    DANE, 


i. 

COMING  TO  LIFE. 

THIS  day,  towards  the  close  of  March, -was.  warm 
enough  for  May — one  of  those  still,  -  balmy, 
suggestive  days,  reminding  you  of  Indian  summer,  for 
the  March  crispness  was  not  in  the  air.  For  nearly 
a  fortnight  the  weather  had  been  unusually  mild,  and 
everybody  was  predicting  a  forward  spring.  Seasons 
were  earlier  in  this  little  Pennsylvania  town,  where 
the  high  hills  to  the  north  shielded  it  in  some  measure 
from  the  fierce  blasts.  Already  the  young  grass  had 
taken  on  an  emerald  tint,  and  birds  were  twittering  in 
the  budding  trees.  Some  of  the  hardier  flowers  had 
appeared.  Joe  had  a  saucer  of  trailing  arbutus  on  the 
window-ledge.  She  had  been  down  to  the  woods  that 
morning,  though  she  scarcely  cared  for  the  flowers  on 
their  own  merit ;  but  she  knew  Stephen  liked  them. 
So  here  they  were,  crocuses,  blue  hepatica,  the  arbutus, 


8  STEPHEN  DANE. 

and  some  curious  green  waxen  leaves.  Stephen  had 
taken  them  all  apart,  and  arranged  them  over  —  taste- 
fully you  would  have  said,  and  marvelled  at  it,  seeing 
the  man.  She  had  remarked  it,  and  wished,  in  her  dull 
way,  that  she  knew  how  people  gave  those  wonderful 
touches  of  grace  to  everything.  There  was  a  smoulder- 
ing pain  in  her  heart  as  she  glanced  at  Stephen.  Was 
it  these  bright  days  that  drifted  them  apart?  For 
somehow  he  seemed  slipping  out  of  her  reach,  and, 
with  the  dogged  tenacity  of  a  narrow  mind,  she  clung 
to  him.  She  had  taken  a  tiresome  ramble  through  the 
woods,  going  ankle  deep  in  the  rank  mosses  without 
ever  seeing  their  beauty,  and  brought  home  the  flowers 
for  him.  They  were  a  pleasant  surprise,  although  rudely 
tumbled  into  an  old  broken  bowl.  A  bright  light  had 
come  into  his  face,  and  he  had  said,  *How  good  of 
you ; "  but  the  shady,  far-off  look  in  his  eyes  had  never 
changed.  He  wanted  something  higher  and  keener 
than  she  could  bestow.  She  felt  this  through  the  slug- 
gish brain,  but  she  lacked  mental  force  to  put  it  into 
words.  There  was  a  torpid  sort  of  perception,  but 
physical  sensations  were  the  strongest  elements  in  her 
nature.  A  half-developed  kind  of  human  life  it  was. 
Stephen  Dane  stood  there  in  the  doorway.  That 
was  low  and  narrow ;  he  was  tall  and  brawny,  though 
thin,  lacking  the  roundness  and  compactness  the  next 
decade  would  bring  him,  for  he  was  but  twenty-three; 
still,  he  nearly  filled  the  space. 


COMING  TO  LIFE.  9 

His  eyes  were  wandering  riverward.  Did  you  ever 
experience  the  curious  sensation  on  looking  over  a 
river,  that  some  help  would  come  from  the  other  side, 
an  indistinct,  but  longed-for  blessing?  That  peaceful 
country,  lying  in  the  purple  haze  of  distance,  seems  like 
a  nearer  heaven,  instinct  with  spiritual  life. 

He  was  glancing  over  there  now,  and  in  a  vague  way 
felt  this.  He  did  not  know  what  it  was  he  wanted, 
only  the  luminous  atmosphere  floating  there  on  the 
silver  stream,  or  drifting  beyond,  up  the  shadowy 
slopes,  stirred  his  soul  with  something  intangible,  per- 
plexing. For  twenty-three  years  he  had  vegetated  in 
content.  Slept,  eaten,  worked  —  that  was  all.  .  Not 
loved  nor  hated,  nor  struggled,  nor  hoped.  I  am  not 
sure  but  men  live  these  lives  oftener  than  women. 

The  picture  before  him  was  beautiful  enough  to 
speak  to  any  soul  that  had  not  been  born  deaf  and 
blind.  Few  are,  I  think.  They  lived  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town  —  Archibald  Dane,  Stephen,  his  son, 
and  an  orphan  niece,  his  dead  brother's  child.  This 
'had  been  their  home  ever  since  Stephen  could  remem- 
ber. At  first  Joe's  mother  was  alive,  but  his  own, 
dead.  For  several  years  Joe  had  been  sole  house- 
keeper. 

From  the  house  down  to  the  river  there  was  a 
gradual  slant,  broken  by  little  hillocks,  tame  enough, 
without  jut  or  spur,  and  an  occasional  rambling  gray 
rock.  Interspersed  were  knolls  of  shrubbery,  clumps 


10  STEPHEN   DANE. 

of  elder  or  hazel,  with  here  and  there  some  oaks, 
rising  in  majestic  grandeur.  When  the  blooming 
summer  crowned  it,  when  the  wind  wound  its  way  in 
billowy  furrows  through  the  grass,  making  an  emerald 
sea  with  frosted  tips  to  the  waves,  you  might  study  it 
for  hours.  Through  vistas  of  twilight  green  the  mur- 
murous river  sparkled.  In  this  opening  you  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the*  misty  hills  beyond,  rounded  into  a 
picture  by  softest  tinting.  In  some  places  there  was 
an  abrupt  earnestness,  and  the  top  became  a  golden- 
spired  cathedral.  Even  now  long,  arrowy  rays  gleamed 
from  them  to  penetrate  the  sloping  sides.  The  river 
was  broad  and  placid.  Miles  below,  it  was  dammed 
up,  and  used  for  manufacturing  purposes ;  but  here  no 
one  interfered  with  it.  Just  as  God  made  it,  here  it 
lay,  going  along  in  a  quiet,  sleepy  fashion.  That  was 
all  it  had  to  do  in  fair  weather.  But  God  sent  it 
storms,  sometimes,  when  it  grew  strong  and  turbulent, 
rushed  madly  into  little  coves  and  nooks,  lashed  the 
rocks  at  its  edge,  or  beat  against  the  bare  roots  of  the 
trees  as  if  it  meant  to  sweep  them  away.  But  to-day 
it  was  calm,  with  a  tender  haze  upon  its  bosom  that 
reminded  you  of  a  bride's  tremulous  veil.  Patches  of 
mosfe  and  lichens  at  its  edge  looked  like  velvet.  Even 
the  brown,  leafless  trees  were  glorified. 

What  meaning  had  it  for  Stephen  Dane  ?  Did  his 
thirsty  soul  go  down  to  bathe,  and  find  there  the  fabled 
fountain  of  new  life,  the  magical  draught  more  potent 


COMING  TO  LITE.  11 

than  Circean  cup?  Did  the  soft  gray  clouds,  drifting 
about  the  sky,  sending  shadows  upon  its  surface,  speak 
of  the  doubts  and  fears  that  beset  one  continually,  and 
yet  are  cleared  up  by  the  sun,  eternal  in  the  heavens? 

He  was  groping  about  blindly.  For  all  the  radiance 
of  the  sun  he  could  not  see.  The  eyes  of  the  soul  are  so 
faint  and  uncertain  at  first.  But  he  wanted  something 
that  was  in  the  river,  in  the  hills  beyond,  in  the  spring- 
tide sky.  Out  of  the  darkness  of  the  past  he  called ; 
out  of  deeps,  stagnant  with  the  rank  vegetation  of  evil. 
For  weeds  always  thrive.  No  place  so  dark  or  noisome 
but  some  foul  tiling  will  make  it  a  home.  And  feeling 
this,  knowing  himself  to  be  weak  and  vile,  and  misera- 
ble within,  he  cried  to  be  lifted  out  of  it  all.  May  be 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  prayed  in  all  his  life. 

What  did  he  want  to  do? 

He  could  not  tell.  Everything  was  so  vague,  so 
unformed  within  him.  It  was  chaos,  with  a  shadow 
moving  upon  the  waters.  It  seems  an  easy  thing  to 
say  to  a  blind,  groping  soul,  "Let  there  be  light; "  but 
we  are  none  of  us  Gods.  And  just  then  there  was  no 
one  to  say  it  to  Stephen  Dane. 

So  he  looked  with  hungry,  longing,  unreasoning 
eyes.  They  were  touching  eyes,  too.  Large,  and  of 
that  soft,  appealing  brown,  you  sometimes  see  in  a  dog 
who  questions  you  minutely.  A  shadow  in  them,  as 
if  he  had  never  lived  in  the  light. 

The  face  was  —  indifferent.     You  see  hundreds  of 


12  STEPHEN  DANE. 

such  faces  among  the  working  poor.  If  you  are  care- 
less, you  pronounce  them  stolid,  and  pass  them  by. 
Looking  underneath,  you  may  see  a  fine  possibility  in 
that  starved  and  stunted  development,  a  soul  that  could 
have  grown  to  grander  heights,  but  in  some  way 
missed  its  proper  aliment.  The  brow  was  not  very 
high,  but  broad,  with  rugged  corners  and  great  width 
of  temple.  It  was  overhung  by  shaggy  chestnut  curls, 
that  seemed  never  to  have  been  combed  out  thoroughly. 
The  cheek  bones  were  high,  the  nose  straight  and 
strong,  with  a  good  deal  of  character  in  it.  The  chin 
was  resolute  and  well  pronounced,  giving  a  squareness 
and  power  to  the  face.  The  lips  had  a  heavy,  care- 
less expression,  as  if  they  dropped  together,  rather 
than  shut  with  any  firm  purpose. 

The  dress  was  indifferent,  too.  Thick  gray  trousers, 
fastened  with  a  leathern  belt  in  place  of  suspenders, 
and  a  blue  flannel  shirt.  The  old  sou'wester,  as  he 
called  his  short,  heavy  jacket,  was  discarded  to-day. 

After  he  had  looked  over  the  river,  and  entreated 
hill  and  sky  in  vain,  he  turned  his  glance  in-doors. 
The  house  was  old,  built  on  a  rocky  slope,  low,  moss- 
grown,  and  crumbling  into  decay.  Two  or  three  large, 
flat  stones  lay  before  the  door,  which  went  in  even  with 
the  ground.  The  room  had  a  dingy  look,  with  its 
ceiling  of  smoke-stained  rafters.  There  was  a  fire  in 
the  wide  fireplace,  the  ends  of  the  logs  resting  upon 
bricks.  One  window  and  the  door  on  one  side,  two 


COMING  TO  LIFE.  13 

windows  on  the  other.  A  shambling,  rickety  wooden 
settle,  some  Windsor  chairs,  a  high  cupboard,  and  a  little 
candle-stand  painted  green,  comprised  the  furniture. 
A  large  table  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  with  the 
remnants  of  dinner,  and  piled-up  dishes.  Joe,  squatted 
on  the  hearth,  her  dress  tucked  round  her  ankles,  was 
taking  some  pork  and  potatoes  out  of  the  large  iron 
dinner  kettle,  that  had  been  left  in  to  keep  hot,  and  not 
needed.  On  the  settle  lay  Archy  Dane,  drowsing  into 
his  afternoon  nap. 

He  was  a  thin,  stoop-shouldered,  weazen-faced 
man,  with  watery  eyes,  a  red  nose,  straggling  gray 
whiskers,  and  straggling  gray  hair.  He,  too,  ate  and 
slept,  but,  instead  of  working,  spent  much  of  his  time 
at  the  tavern,  in  a  maudlin  state.  He  had  been  a 
drinking  man  always.  That  accounted  for  the  thrift- 
less-looking place.  Perhaps,  too,  it  accounted  for 
Stephen  Dane's  stunted  soul. 

He,  the  young  man,  took  in  this  untidy  picture. 
He  had  seen  it  hundreds  of  times  before,  but  never 
with  this  sickening  sensation.  For  out  of  doors  all 
nature  was  clean  and  pure,  teeming  with  new  life. 
But  this  darkness  and  vileness  within ! 

In  his  slow-thinking  manner  he  had  fancied  it  would 
go  on  thus  always.  He  would  marry  Joe  in  the  course 
of  time,  though  he  had  never  said  anything  to  her 
about  it ;  never  made  love  to  her,  as  the  phrase  goes ; 
rarely  kissed  her.  It  would  come  about  some  way. 


14  STEPHEN   DANE. 

And  they  would  rear  children  to  work  and  vegetate. 
He  would  drop  into  a  bent  old  man,  wrinkled  and 
gray,  go  down  to  the  tavern  to  hear  the  news,  smoke  a 
stumpy  pipe,  and  at  last  die  like  a  brute. 

Would  he? 

He  smote  the  door-post  angrily  with  his  fist.  A 
great,  powerful  fist  it  was.  You  would  not  care  to  get 
a  blow  from  it. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Stephen  ?  " 

Joe  sprang  up  in  affright. 

"  Nothing ! " 

His  voice  was  deep  and  full  of  sullen  passionateness. 

She  lifted  the  dish  to  the  table.  She  came  and 
looked  curiously  at  him. 

"  'Tend  to  your  work,"  he  exclaimed,  roughly. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  river  again. 

He  rarely  went  to  church.  Now  and  then  to  a 
Methodist  revival  meeting,  to  have  some  fun.  But 
to-day  he  felt  there  was  a  God.  In  a  dumb,  indignant 
way,  he  wondered  what  gratification  it  was  for  a  greater 
and  wiser  Power  to  see  men  grovelling  along,  a  little, 
and  only  a  very  little,  removed  from  the  beasts  of  the 
field.  Somehow  it  didn't  seem  quite  fair  to  give  a  man 
a  soul,  and  place  him  where  he  could  never  use  it.  He 
ground  his  teeth  with  a  wronged,  bitter  feeling. 

"  Why,  there's  the  bell,  Stephen  I  Ain't  you  goin' 
to  work?"  and  Joe  wondered  in  her  mind  what  pos- 
sessed him. 


COMING  TO  LIFE.  15 

He  took  down  his  old  slouch  hat  and  marched  off 
without  a  word.  Out  into  the  bright,  free  air.  It 
was  a  good  mile  to  the  Foundeiy.  In  old  times  the 
men  didn't  mind  being  late,  but  under  the  new  regime 

—  well,  who  cared?     Let  it  come.     That  man  didn't 
own   soul   and   body.      So    he    sauntered    along,  the 
resentment   against   a   huge   wrong,  that   he   did  not 
understand,    working   out  at   every  pore.     If  all  his 
worldly  good  for  years  to  come  had   depended   upon 
his  haste  now,  he  would  not  have  quickened  one  step. 
The  man  was  in  a  sullen,  reckless  mood. 

But  the  glory  of  the  day  was  gone.  Purple  hills 
and  silver  river  no  longer  lulled  him  into  dreamy 
languor.  Something  harder  and  sharper  took  pos- 
session of  him.  A  great  hungry  life  confronted  him 

—  a   life   potatoes    and   bread   could   not   satisfy.     A 
furious  instinct  within  goaded  him  on  to  a  desperate 
move.     He  was  tired  of  being  a  clod.     He  had  a  soul, 
and  wanted  to  use  it.     Then  a  sardonic  smile  crossed 
his  face  —  did  he  have  a  soul  ? 

Turning  out  of  the  lane,  the  street  was  long  and 
wide,  the  gradual  descent  adding  to  the  perspective. 
He  saw  the  low,  rambling  place,  with  its  tall  black 
chimneys,  where  the  dense  smoke  curled  up  against 
the  azure  sky,  as  if  man  wanted  to  shut  out  God's 
bright,  beautiful  world.  It  was  hateful  in  his  sight. 
And,  drawing  nearer,  a  smothering,  strangling  breath 
thickened  the  air.  Then  the  clang,  the  jar,  the  roaring 


16  STEPHEN  DANE. 

of  fires,  the  whirring  of  machinery,  the  stroke  of  the 
heavy  hammers  smote  upon  his  ear.  Bars  and  piles  of 
iron  lay  strewn  around  just  where  they  had  been  thrown 
from  the  great  wagons,  waiting  for  the  fierce  flames  to 
reduce  and  ripen  them  into  available  stock.  A  savage 
kind  of  discipline,  and  yet  it  brought  this  crude  stuff 
into  a  state  of  civilization  and  usefulness.  AVhat  if 
human  souls,  with  iron  in  them,  underwent  some  such 
process  before  they  could  give  out  the  true  steely  ring  ! 

A  man  stood  at  the  wide  gateway  as  Stephen  Dane 
entered.  That  gate  was  a  modern  innovation,  and 
hated  of  the  workmen.  And  this  man  — 

He  was  about  forty ;  barely  average  height,  but  with 
a  compactness  of  frame,  a  vigor  of  limb  and  muscle, 
that  spoke  of  hardy  sinews  and  great  strength.  The 
feet  and  hands  were  large,  the  latter  ridgy  with  dull 
blue  veins.  The  face  corresponded  with  the  figure  — 
square,  hard,  coarse.  A  heavy  under  jaw,  projecting 
forehead,  with  thick,  beetling  brows,  and  deep-set, 
keen  gray  eyes.  The  nose  was  short,  with  distended 
nostrils ;  the  mouth  wide,  but  with  thin,  nervous  lips. 
It  was  not  self-indulgent  nor  sensual,  yet  supremely 
selfish.  You  knew  the  man  would  have  his  own,  if  he 
wrung  out  the  last  drop  of  one's  heart's  blood.  But 
he  was  an  honest  man,  so  far  as  the  world  goes. 
When  he  made  a  bargain  or  a  contract,  he  kept  his 
part  scrupulously.  Why,  there  were  men  in  the  neigh- 
boring cities  who  would  back  his  simple  word  against 


COMING  TO  LIFE.  17 

any  other  man's  bond.  His  integrity  had  never  been 
questioned.  But  there  are  some  Utopian  people  who 
must  needs  have  a  higher  law,  an  integrity  of  the 
heart. 

This  face  of  power,  will,  and  mastery  turned  full 
upon  Stephen  Dane;  and  he,  having  no  weapons  to 
meet  it  with,  writhed  angrily  under  it. 

"Late!"  the  master  said,  laconically,  taking  out  a 
book  and  pencil.  "  Second  offence,  Dane." 

Ten  minutes  ago  Stephen  Dane  thought  he  had 
courage  enough  to  beard  this  lion  —  was  almost  long- 
ing for  a  chance  to  fling  out  some  of  the  bitter  words 
gnawing  at  his  heart.  Now  that  the  time  had  come,  he 
was  speechless.  It  was  a  hard  matter  to  answer  this 
man. 

"You  know  what  I  told  the  workmen,  Dane.  I'm 
bound  to  break  up  this  lazy,  lounging  practice,  if  I 
send  every  hand  away  and  shut  up  the  Foundery." 

Then  he  no  longer  held  him  captive  with  his  keen, 
resolute  eye.  Stephen  Dane  shuffled  away  uneasily, 
angry  at  himself  for  his  cowardice. 

Through  the  large  yard,  into  one  of  those  smoke- 
blackened  buildings.  It  came  into  his  mind,  just  then, 
something  about  going  down  into  the  mouth  of  hell.  It 
looked  like  it.  These  great  furnaces  full  of  molten 
metal,  glaring  in  its  vivid  glow  of  a  hue  more  intense 
than  scarlet.  Great  cranes,  loaded  with  their  heavy 
chains,  waiting  to  lift  the  steaming  mass,  and  pour 


18  STEPHEN   DANE. 

it,  a  scorching  river,  into  these  giant  moulds.  And 
here,  where  it  lay  in  its  dusky  bed,  taking  on  the  im- 
press of  a  new  form,  a  dense  smoke  arose,  giving  the 
faces  of  the  workmen  a  weird,  spectral  air.  Fierce 
eyes  glared  out ;  brawny  arms  reached  hither  and 
thither ;  gaunt,  half-nude  figures  flitted  about  like  the 
shadows  of  the  lost  souls  in  Dora's  powerful  illustra- 
tions of  Dante.  Voices  sounded  ghostly  and  terrible 
amid  this  din,  and  a  laugh  broke  into  short  echoes,  as 
if  it  might  well  be  the  scornful  jeer  of  some  doomed 
spirit. 

It  must  be  confessed  there  was  a  better  and  brisker 
air  about  the  place  under  the  new  reign.  Before,  it 
had  been  falling  into  a  process  of  slow  decay.  Super- 
intendents were  inefficient,  workmen  idle  ;  old  Mr.  Elli- 
cott  easy  and  powerless ;  Mr.  Reardon  confined-  to  a 
sick  bed  in  a  distant  city,  grumbling  about  the  small 
profits,  and  threatening  to  close  the  concern.  Insubor- 
dination and  thriftlessness  supreme  rulers. 

Mr.  Reardon  died  :  Mr.  Thomas  Vennard,  one  of  his 
creditors,  came  down  to  Trcgony  to  look  at  the  Foun- 
dery.  He  had  a  quick  eye  and  calculating  brain.  It 
was  a  kind  of  business  he  understood ;  and  he  decided 
the  thing  could  be  worked  up  handsomely.  The  place 
was  inventoried,  and  Reardon's  share  sold  at  auction, 
Mr.  Vennard  becoming  purchaser.  He  would  fain  have 
ousted  Ellicott ;  but  the  old  man  had  an  odd  persistency 
of  affection  for  an  establishment  that  had  been  handed 


COMING   TO  LIFE.  19 

down  from  generation  to  generation.  Mr.  Vennard's 
shrewd  eyes  discovered  another  way  in  which  to  gain 
his  point.  There  was  no  Ellicott  son  now  to  follow  in 
his  father's  steps.  Only  a  daughter  of  three  and 
twenty,  an  insipid-flavored  young  woman,  with  flaxen 
hair  and  pale  blue  eyes.  Some  people  thought  her 
handsome ;  indeed,  she  had  been  quite  a  belle  one  win- 
ter in  Philadelphia.  She  was  soft,  plastic,  ready  to  take 
the  impress  of  any  strong  hand  that  might  be  laid  upon 
her.  In  a  month  Mr.  Vennard  had  gauged  every 
point  and  capability,  as  if  she  had  been  a  steam-engine, 
and  decided  to  marry  her.  Then  the  Ellicott  works 
would  be  all  his.  He  liked  supreme  power,  and  this 
indulgent  old  man's  interference  annoyed  him.  If  he 
had  been  born  south  he  would  have  made  a  w  strong " 
master. 

He  was  a  widower,  with  one  child,  a  little  girl.  I 
will  confess  to  you  that  he  had  not  been  exactly  happy 
in  his  first  marriage.  Mrs.  Vennard  came  from  the 
"higher  law"  region.  She  had  clear  eyes  and  an 
honest  soul;  and  when  she  learned  what  manner  of 
man  she  had  married,  her  heart  died  within  her.  One 
night,  in  the  darkness  and  silence,  it  floated  out  on  the 
great  unknown  sea,  alone.  Angel  hands  took  it  up 
with  reverent  tenderness. 

Mr.  Vennard  felt  somehow  that  he  had  wronged  this 
woman.  They  were  not  born  for  each  other,  though  at 
first  he  had  fancied  her  strongly.  And,  since  she  was 
2 


20  STEPHEN  DANE. 

comfortably  dead,  since  the  sad  eyes  would  never  re- 
proach him  again  with  their  prisoned  pain,  he  sorrowed 
discreetly,  and  went  his  way  breathing  more  freely. 

He  had  no  fear  of  Miss  Ellicott  turning  angel  on  his 
hands.  Give  her  fine  dresses  and  elegant  jewelry,  — 
he  liked  them,  too  ;  they  set  off  a  woman,  —  a  carriage 
to  ride  in,  servants  to  wait  upon  her,  and  she  would 
never  trouble  him  with  any  vain  and  useless  specu- 
lations. 

So  he  went  to  work  in  good  earnest,  wooing  a  wife 
and  laying  the  foundation  for  a  fortune.  In  ten  years 
he  meant  to  be  a  rich  man.  This  was  how  a  change 
had  come  over  the  Ellicott  "Works. 

Mr.  Vennard  was  not  given  to  blustering.  He  called 
the  men  together  one  morning,  and  delivered  a  brief 
address.  They  had  fallen  into  idle  and  vicious  habits  ; 
drank  more  rum  than  they  did  work ;  he  was  not  one 
to  mince  matters  ;  made  bad  iron,  poor  machinery, 
running  the  credit  of  the  place  down  to  the  lowest  ebb, 
and  driving  its  owners  to  the  very  verge  of  bankruptcy. 
There  was  to  be  a  new  order  of  affairs  instituted.  Every 
man  was  expected  to  be  on  the  mark  when  the  bell 
rang,  to  do  his  work  properly,  to  keep  tolerably  sober 
until  hours  were  over.  If  they  couldn't  come  under 
the  rules,  they  could — go.  When  he  paid  a  man  for  his 
labor,  he  expected  him  to  earn  the  money. 

No  swearing  with  all  this.  Every  word  dropped 
down  with  a  sharp,  metallic  click,  like  the  closing  of  a 


COMING  TO  LIFE.  21 

vice.  The  tone  was  deep  and  strong.  The  men  winced 
and  glowered  at  each  other  from  under  threatening 
brows,  but  no  one  spoke.  Instead,  a  cowed,  savage 
sullenncss.  They  felt  they  had  a  master. 

Mr.  Vennard  brought  in  new  foremen  after  his  own 
heart ;  but  his  keen  vigilance  never  for  an  instant  re- 
laxed. There  were  the  usual  mutinous  outbreaks  ;  but 
every  one  concerned  was  discharged  on  the  spot.  New 
men  came  to  fill  their  places.  Being  sent  out  of  the 
Ellicott  Works  was  as  final  as  expulsion  from  Paradise. 

You  know  the  kind  of  men  who  always  manage  mat- 
ters their  own  way.  Some  are  born  gentlemen,  and  do 
it  by  high  intellectual  force  of  will.  Mr.  Vennard  was 
on  a  lower  plane,  but  held  his  way  as  royally. 

There  was  little  love  lost  between  him  and  his  work- 
men. But  love  was  considerably  below  par  with  him 
—  not  one  of  the  stocks  he  cared  to  deal  in.  And  in  a 
town  like  this,  where  workmen  marry  and  rear  up  fam- 
ilies, they  become,  as  it  were,  a  part  of  the  soil.  Not 
always  taking  root  through  affection.  A  hard  necessity, 
like  an  iron  chain,  binds  them  to  the  spot.  They  are 
often  a  little  in  debt,  cannot  afford  to  lose  time,  nor 
spare  the  money  for  a  removal.  So  capital  and  brains 
win  the  day.  Two  or  three  large  manufactories  in  a 
small  town  have  it  all  their  own  way,  and  uneducated, 
thriftless  labor  must  submit  or  starve ;  and  starving  is 
not  generally  a  pleasant  process. 

So  the  more  thoughtful  and  far-sighted  gave  in  to 


22  STEPHEN  DANE. 

the  Vennard  reign  from  a  sort  of  angry  compulsion, 
since  the  lives  of  their  wives  and  little  ones  depended 
on  their  submission. 

Stephen  Dane  had  not  espoused  either  side  very 
warmly.  He  was  reticent,  self-contained,  or  rather 
would  be  when  the  coming  manhood  had  sufficient  force 
to  assert  itself.  He  had  been  indifferent,  for  these  re- 
strictions did  not  touch  him.  He  was  quite  too  proud 
to  defraud  his  employer  —  that  rugged,  ungracious  sort 
of  pride  one  meets  with  now  and  then.  He  did  his 
work  well  on  the  same  principle.  All  had  gone  rightly 
enough  with  him  until  within  a  week  or  so.  But  now 
he  had  begun  a  process  dangerous  to  a  weak  mind,  and 
the  first  step  was  dissatisfaction  with  the  grovelling  life 
he  had  hitherto  led. 

In  six  months  Mr.  Vennard  could  see  just  where  he 
stood,  and  glance  down  a  golden  future.  But  pros- 
perity did  not  mellow  his  heart,  nor  send  any  rich,  gen- 
erous juices  through  his  frame.  He  seemed  to  con- 
tract instead.  He  drew  the  reins  tighter  everywhere. 
He  was  building  a  large  house  on  the  hill,  and  was 
also  within  a  month  of  his  wedding-day.  It  was  rather 
too  soon  to  begin  to  use  capital  in  this  fashion,  and  it 
pinched  him  a  little.  So  he  pinched  others. 

He  was  supreme  master  of  the  Ellicott  Works. 
Moreover,  the  people  in  the  town  began  to  look  up 
to  him.  His  advice  was  sought  on  various  topics,  from 
real  estate  to  railroad  stock.  Drowsy  old  men  nodded 


COMING   TO   LIFE.  23 

sagaciously,  with  their  eyes  half  closed.  Miss  Ellicott 
plumed  herself  upon  her  conquest,  and  proudly  dis- 
played her  diamond  ring.  The  field  before  him  looked 
so  fair  with  its  ripening  yellow  harvest ! 

But  Stephen  Dane  peered  into  the  dusky,  impenetra- 
ble desert,  and  tortured  himself  with  vain  questionings. 


24  STEPHEN   DANE. 


n. 

TANGLED  PATHS. 
• 

STEPHEN  DANE  was  in  a  good  mood  to  listen  to 
John  Gilbert  that  night.  He  didn't  exactly 
understand  what  Gilbert  was  driving  at  with  his  "  right 
of  labor."  The  tyranny  of  employers  appeared  more 
tangible.  But  how  the  reform  was  to  be  made,  how 
workmen  were  to  acquire  shops  of  their  own,  com- 
fortable homes,  leisure  for  reading  and  recreation,  an 
occasional  journey,  and  some  of  the  pleasures  of  life, 
he  did  not  clearly  see.  Indeed,  to  tell  the  truth,  he 
had  been  considerably  muddled,  whether  it  was  owing 
to  Gilbert's  lack  of  clearness  or  his  own  dull  brain. 

Joe  had  playfully  stretched  her  arms  across  the  door 
to  bar  him  in. 

"I  don't  see  what  you  are  off  for  every  night,"  she 
had  said  with  girlish  petulance. 

"Don't  you?  Well,  I  do.  It's  a  man's  business, 
and  women  haven't  the  brains  to  understand  it." 

Some  of  the  new  theories.  He  did  not  know  then 
that  he  had  taken  up  the  wrong  end  by  undervaluing 
women. 


TANGLED  PATHS.  £*> 

WO,  they  haven't!"  snapped  Joe.  "They've  brains 
enough  to  understand  when  they're  left  at  home  alone 
night  after  night." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  turned  away.  Joe  watched 
him  down  the  lane,  pouted  a  little,  and  then  ran  into 
Sally  Fawcett's  for  a  good  gossip. 

Stephen  went  to  the  Star.  It  was  a  rather  better 
class  tavern  than  the  one  his  father  frequented,  but 
bad  enough,  though  it  boasted  a  reading-room.  Two 
or  three  tables  were  on  the  side  opposite  the  bar,  con- 
taining a  few  stray  newspapers,  and  generally  occupied 
by  a  motley  group,  who  played  "  Seven  up "  and 
"Euchre."  Some  of  the  more  ambitious  had  organized 
a  Club,  and  of  these  John  Gilbert  was  leader. 

He  was  a  little,  nervous,  hungry-looking  man,  with 
restless  eyes  and  a  great  sallow  forehead,  the  sandy 
hair  being  very  thin  on  the  top,  which  seemed  to  add 
to  its  height.  He  had  long,  angular  arms,  bony,  blood- 
less fingers,  and  was  much  given  to  gesticulating. 
Like  many  another  reformer,  he  had  a  chronic  quar- 
rel with  the  world.  He  saw  its  faults  and  wrongs, 
and  held  them  up  to  the  indignation  of  others  ;  but  he 
could  not  seem  to  get  hold  of  the  great  cure  for  these 
evils. 

The  sanded  floor  was  ornamented  with  pools  of 
tobacco  juice,  stumps  of  cigars,  and  charred  matches. 
There  was  a  vile  odor  in  the  place,  liquoy,  smoke,  and 
unclean  men  each  adding  their  mite.  Somehow,  it 


?6  STEPHEN   DANE. 

went  against  Stephen  Dane,  and  he  lingered  in  the 
doorway  many  moments. 

"Hillo,  Dane  !  "  said  a  rather  thick,  unsteady  voice. 
"  Come  in  and  treat,  old  fellow  ! " 

"  Treat  yourselves ; "  and  Dane  threw  some  loose 
change  towards  him  and  the  few  stragglers  around. 

"You  needn't  be  so  huffy,"  was  the  reply,  as  the 
man  scrambled  on  the  floor  for  the  money. 

John  Gilbert  came  up  the  street.  He  had  a  peculiar 
uneasy  gait,  and  was  continually  fumbling  with  his 
hands. 

"Well,  Dane,"  was  his  salutation,  accompanied  by  a 
brief  nod,  "  what's  the  news  ?  " 

"  Don't  apply  to  me ; "  and  Stephen  gave  a  short, 
forced  laugh. 

"Why  not?  Doesn't  Thomas  Vennard,  Esquire, 
keep  the  world  going  straight?  If  it  swerved  the  mil- 
lionth of  an  inch  on  its  axis,  we  should  hear  of  it. 
Business  pretty  good  ?  " 

"  Good  enough  with  him,  and  always  will  be,"  was 
the  half-sullen  rejoinder. 

"You're  right  there,  Dane.  Vennard  and  that  crew 
are  always  prosperous  men,  let  the  world  go  as  it  will. 
Now,  why  should  they  have  all  the  good  luck  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure, "said  Stephen,  grimly. 

"  They  shouldn't.  If  God  made  men,  which  I  some- 
times question.,  he  didn't  mean  one  should  be  a  slave  to 
the  other.  And  it  amounts  to  just  that,  Dane.  You 


TANGLED   PATHS.  27 

belong  to  Vennard  about  as  much  as  a  negro  slave  to 
his  master.  I'm  opposed  to  slavery  of  any  kind.  I 
say  one  man  hasn't  any  right  to  lord  it  over  another. 
Don't  you  s'pose  to-night  that  \  have  as  much  brains  as 
Thomas  Vennard  ?  " 

Judging  from  looks,  allowing  one's  forehead  was 
filled  with  brains,  a  great  deal  more,  thought  Stephen 
Dane.  And  yet  he  was  not  quite  sure  but  quality,  as 
well  as  quantity,  had  something  to  do  with  it.  So  he 
only  nodded  a  half  assent. 

w  "Well,  why  am  not  I  a  rich  man  ?    If  I  had  chosen," 

—  and  the  speaker  stretched  up  to  his  utmost  capacity, 

—  "/  might  have  ground  the  flesh  and  blood  of  my  fel- 
low-creatures into  gold.     It's  only  just  turning  a  vice 
little  tighter  every  day.     Some  one  groans,  to  be  sure ; 
who  cares?     Here  comes  Thomas  Vennard  to  look  at 
Reai'don's  share  of  the  Works.     Things  were  going  to 
the  dogs,  sharp.    It  looked  worse  than  it  was.     No  one 
was  there  to  bid  against  him,  and  Ellicott's  an  old  fool. 
'Now,'  says   my  gentleman,  'you'll  all   have   to  stand 
round.     Any  man    that   I  can't    buy  may    go  to    the 
devil.     And  those  I  do  buy  will  have  a  long  row  to 
hoe,    I   can   tell   you.     No    fooling   with  me.'     Now, 
what  is  the  result?" 

Stephen  Dane  ground  his  teeth,  but  made  no  reply. 

"You  work  twice  as  hard  as  before,  and  get  the  same 
pay.  The  profit  goes  into  the  pocket  of  T.  Vennard. 
And  if  one  man  of  you  dares  to  say  his  soul's  his  own, 


28  STEPHEN   DANE. 

what  then?  Off  he  marches.  What  can  a  poor  man 
do  ?  Here's  his  family  starving  if  he  is  out  of  work  a 
week.  I  say,  Capital  is  the  greatest  tyrant  in  the  world. 
It  fights  labor  down  to  the  lowest  point,  and  chains  it 
there.  It  means  to  keep  workmen  ignorant.  Educa- 
tion is  its  bitterest  enemy.  What  chance  has  a  man  for 
improvement  when  he  gets  just  enough  to  keep  body 
and  soul  together?  How  can  he  study  when  he  comes 
home  worn  out  with  toil  ?  He  must  have  some  excite- 
ment, some  relaxation  ;  so  he  flies  to  the  tavern.  That's 
what  the  bosses  like.  They  make  a  great  spread,  build- 
ing churches  and  voting  public  schools  everywhere. 
Who  goes  to  'em?  Why,  look  at  the  men  in  this  town 
who  haven't  a  Sunday  coat,  and  who  are  compelled  to 
send  their  children  to  work  at  twelve  and  thirteen  ! 
That  rears  up  just  such  another  brutish  generation.  I 
say  the  whole  thing  is  an  abomination  ! " 

The  speaker  brought  one  fist  down  on  the  palm  of 
the.  other  hand,  and  gave  Dane  a  triumphant  nod,  as 
if  he  had  established  a  great  point. 

"What's  to  be  done?"  asked  Stephen  Dane, 
thoughtfully.  "These  rich  men  always  will  keep 
the  power." 

"  I  say  they  haven't  any  business  with  so  much 
money.  Equalization  of  capital  is  my  great  theory. 
Workmen  must  take  it  into  their  own  hands." 

"But  how  can  they?" 

Dane's  tone  was  impatient. 


TANGLED  PATHS.  29 

"They  must  form  associations  —  Homes.  Now,  I 
believe  these  homes  could  be  successfully  carried  out.* 
Each  man  could  put  in  his  labor,  his  energy,  and  what- 
ever money  he  might  have,  and  share  equal  with  his 
fellows.  It's  the  only  thing  that  ever  will  raise  the 
poorer  classes.  No  one  will  give  them  a  helping  hand  ; 
so  they  must  help  themselves." 

"  But  what  could  they  do  ?  People  must  eat." 
"  Just  what  the  workmen  do  at  Elliott's,  or  any 
other  place.  When  do  you  suppose  Vennard  would 
make  a  fortune  if  it  depended  on  his  daily  labor  ?  And 
if  so  many  men  can  make  thousands  of  dollars  a  year 
for  him,  they  could  make  something  for  themselves. 
Couldn't  they  have  factories,  and  mills,  and  farms? 
And  then  this  abode,  which  should  be  a  home,  would 
admit  of  the  developing  of  each  soul  according  to  its 
primal  bent.  Each  man  must  have  the  work  that  suits 
his  native  power.  Under  such  a  system,  the  talent, 
genius,  and  power  would  be  brought  out,  cultivated 
according  to  the  eternal  truths  and  harmonies,  and  man 
would  no  longer  be  a  brute,  a  mere  machine,  at  the 
beck  of  any  person  who  would  give  him  barely  enough 
to  keep  him  from  starving." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  one  of  these  Homes  ?  " 
"Yes,  I've  seen  'em.     No  dirty  floors  and  frowzy- 
headed  women.     No  starved  and  beggarly  brats.     No 
filth    and   foulness.       Men    and    women    enfranchising 
themselves  from  these  cursed  laws  of  society  and  cus- 


30  STEPHEN   DANE. 

torn ;  growing  into  a  broad,  vigorous  life.  You  can 
believe  in  a  God,  there.  And  when  the  day  comes  in 
which  a  soul  will  dare  to  be  true  to  itself — " 

w  But  why  don't  people  form  them  everywhere  ? " 
Somehow  the  idea  looked  so  bright,  and  clean,  and 
enticing  to  Stephen  Dane. 

"  Why  ?  Because  the  world  is  full  of  greedy,  grasp- 
ing men,  and  vain,  selfish  women.  Because  among 
people  of  means  you  never  find  a  correspondingly 
generous  soul.  What  is  it  to  Vennard  if  men  are 
dragged  down  to  the  very  dregs  of  social  life,  stupefy 
themselves  with  bad  liquor,  beat  their  wives  and 
children?  When  they  reach  that  point  of  brutishness 
that  incapacitates  them  from  earning  their  wages,  he 
gets  new  men,  and  works  them  down.  The  old  ones 
make  thieves,  murderers,  and  paupers.  He  grumbles 
at  taxes  and  the  increase  of  crime ;  they  all  do ;  and  yet 
they  are  ready  enough  to  ship  workmen  off  when  no 
longer  useful.  Do  they  think  a  man  has  a  soul,  a 
bruin,  or  could  be  anything  beyond  the  mere  machine 
they  make  him?" 

All  this  stirred  Stephen  strangely.  He  knew  so 
little  concerning  the  schemes  with  which  men  have 
deluded  themselves  in  their  vain  search  for  a  perfect 
social  system,  that  he  was  not  capable  of  seeing  the 
faults  or  appreciating  the  difficulties  of  these  great 
reforms.  He  had  a  perception,  vague  though  it  was, 
of  a  better  life  than  he  was  leading,  and  Gilbert's 


TANGLED   PATHS.  31 

Phalansteries  appeared  perfection.  But  how  to  reach 
one. 

"Could  I  join  one  of  these?"  he  said  at  length. 

Gilbert  looked  at  him  curiously.  He  stood  just 
in  range  of  the  light  from  the  open  door.  Some- 
thing in  the  man's  stalwart,  rude  strength  touched  him 
with  a  sense  of  incongruity.  Had  he  any  fine  brain  ? 

"  Yes,  you  could,"  he  answered  slowly. 

He  was  sometimes  compelled  to  admit  to  himself 
that  these  experiments  had  been  failures.  He  laid  the 
blame  on  the  people  who  composed  them,  forgetting 
that  systems  must  be  made  for  men,  and  that  human 
souls,  in  their  infinite  variety,  cannot  all  be  crowded 
into  one  groove,  or  reach  one  height.  They  ignore 
the  differences  of  temperament,  they  cling  to  the  same 
arbitrary  government  they  denounce  so  bitterly  in  the 
world.  With  all  their  experience  they  make  too  little 
allowance  for  the  warps,  and  strains,  and  excrescences 
poor  human  nature  suffers  from,  and  will  while  the 
earth  stands. 

Two  or  three  new-comers  joined  the  two  men. 
Stephen  frowned  and  bit  his  lip.  He  wanted  to  hear 
more  about  these  places,  but  he  was  too  reserved  to 
open  his  heart  to,  a  crowd. 

"What's  the  row,  Gilbert?  Laying  down  the  law 
again?"  asked  a  round-faced,  jolly-looking  fellow. 

"  No  row,"  said  Gilbert,  rather  surlily.  "  Can't  a 
man  talk?" 


32  STEPHEN- 


"  I  do  suppose  he  can  in  this  free  country." 

"  Free  !  "   Gilbert  gave  a  contemptuous  sneer. 

"Yes,  free  country.  I  ain't  goin'  to  stand  by  an'  see 
her  run  down.  I  have  all  I  want." 

"  You're  a  lucky  fellow,"  with  another  sneer.  "Can't 
many  men  say  that." 

"Tell  you  what  it  is,  Gilbert;  you  men,  with  your 
fine  theories,  are  always  out  of  sorts,  and  dissatisfied. 
No  thin'  goes  right." 

Gilbert  took  up  the  gauntlet.  He  was  fond  of 
argument;  he  had  a  certain  readiness  of  words  and 
much  superficial  information.  He  soon  distanced  his 
adversary,  and  established  his  point,  which  was  always 
the  wrongs  and  degradation  of  the  working  classes. 
He  had  a  certain  show  of  right  on  his  side,  and  a 
sympathy  that  attracted  many  to  his  way  of  thinking. 
It  is  so  easy  to  make  a  man  believe  he  is  wronged, 
unjustly  treated.  And  when  he  sees  another  accumu- 
lating wealth,  the  result  of  his  labor,  his  heart  fires 
up  with  a  bitter,  angry  feeling. 

Stephen  Dane  listened.  As  they  went  on,  evil 
passions  were  aroused.  Oaths  were  freely  used.  One 
and  another  went  in  for  a  drink,  and  rejoined  the  group 
with  a  heated  brain,  ripe  for  any  monstrous  belief. 
Inside,  they  were  gambling  in  a  small  way,  singing 
street  songs,  and  using  their  tongues  noisily,  when 
they  were  not  too  thick  for  articulation. 

If  such  men  as  Gilbert  believed  anything  could  be 


TANGLED  PATHS.  33 

done  for  the  "masses,"  why  not  begin  here?  Heaven 
knows  they  needed  it  sorely.  But  he  laid  the  blame 
off  his  shoulders,  dropped  it  at  another's  door.  Men 
were  justified  in  drinking  and  carousing,  because  they 
had  no  other  amusement.  With  low  wages,  homes 
could  not  be  beautified,  intellects  cultivated,  nor  any 
of  the  appliances  or  refinements  of  wealth  indulged  in. 
Clearly,  then,  the  system  of  labor  was  at  fault.  But 
did  such  foul,  disgusting  pleasures  as  these  pay? 

Stephen  Dane  stole  away  while  the  excited  voices 
were  at  their  highest.  The  man's  impulses  were  clean 
and  pure ;  these  sights  and  sounds  jarred  roughly 
against  his  soul.  If  he  could  go  to  one  of  those  Homes, 
if  he  could  be  educated  to  something,  and  not  have  to 
grovel  all  his  life  !  For,  after  all,  in  the  battle,  brain 
won  the  day  against  brawn.  Not  just  such  a  morbid, 
nervous,  crochety  brain  as  Gilbert's.  I  hardly  know 
why  Gilbert  should  have  lost  favor  in  his  eyes  that 
night  as  a  prophet ;  but  he  did.  Stephen  had  begun  to 
believe  quite  strongly  in  him,  but  now  he  felt  all  adrift 
again.  And  such  a  wide,  lonesome  sea  ! 

The  young  moon  was  walking  amid  the  stars,  shed- 
ding a  ^alm  and  tender  light.  All  was  so  peaceful 
here !  How  odd  that  Gilbert's  confessed  half-atheism 
should  have  made  him  think  of  God !  He  began  to 
wonder  at  his  own  previous  insensibility.  He  was 
not  stock  or  stone.  He  could  perceive  this  heavenly 
beauty,  and  enjoy  it.  He  even  longed  for  something 


34  STEPHEN   DANE. 

besides  —  companionship,  perhaps.  He  had  never 
known  how  solitary  his  existence  was  until  now. 

If  he  went  away  to  lead  a  new  life,  what  could  he 
do  with  his  father,  with  Joe?  Not  leave  them  behind. 
He  had  an  idea  that  to  desert  them  would  make  a  bad 
beginning.  And  yet  they  were  a  drag.  Joe  might  be 
raised  a  little,  but  his  father  — 

So,  in  spite  of  the  balmy  evening,  he  came  home  in 
an  irritable  mood.  The  room  was  deserted.  The  fire 
on  the  hearth  had  burned  to  a  heap  of  ashes.  It  looked 
gray  enough  in  that  long  beam  of  moonlight.  He 
stumbled  up  stairs  without  the  aid  of  any  candle,  and 
went  to  bed.  Generally  to  instant  slumber,  but  now 
he  tossed  about  restlessly.  The  wind  brought  Sally 
Fawcett's  shrill  laugh  up  the  lane,  and  the  echo  of  Joe's 
good  night.  How  noisy  these  women  were  !  —  loud- 
voiced,  hard,  not  the  women  of  Phalansteries.  Then 
his  father  came  shambling  along,  and  silence  fell  over 
the  house.  The  voice  of  the  distant  marsh-frogs  kept 
up  a  monotonous  murmur,  and  amid  this  he  dropped 
asleep. 

Mr.  Vennard's  marriage  made  little  difference  at  the 
Kllicott  Works.  True,  he  was  away  for  a  week.  A 
gatekeeper  marked  time  as  rigidly.  Foremen  were  as 
sharp.  But  one  relentless  eye  was  not  there  to  pounce 
upon  them  in  an  unsuspecting  moment.  The  men 
breathed  a  little  more  freely,  but  there  were  no  cases  of 
insubordination. 


TANGLED   PATHS.  35 

He  brought  his  little  daughter  back  with  him,  and 
father  and  child  took  up  their  abode  at  Mr.  Ellicott's, 
until  the  completion  of  the  new  house.  Mrs.  Vennard's 
elegant  dresses  were  the  town  talk  ;  and  Joe,  like  many 
another  foolish  woman,  was  delighted  with  a  sight  of 
her  in  the  carriage,  driving  with  the  little  girl. 

"  But  such  a  child  I  There  ain't  nothin'  to  her.  She 
looks,  for  all  the  world,  like  an  angel.  Light,  yellow 
curls,  and  a  face  as  white  as  a  ghost.  She's  enough- 
sight  more  like  her  step-mother  than  her  father.  Won- 
der if  she'll  be  good  to  Rer,  Stephen  ?  " 

"Why  not?"  with  a  sort  of  grave,  preoccupied  air. 
Stephen  no  longer  went  to  the  tavern,  but  he  was  still 
busy  pondering  the  problem  of  destiny. 

"  Step-mothers  ain't  always  good."  And  Joe  tossed 
her  head  with  a  quick  jerk,  as  if  she  was  enunciating  a 
great  truth. 

Stephen  wondered  just  then  how  much  Mr.  Vennard 
cared  for  his  child  —  if  indeed  he  could  care  for  any- 
thing. What  a  life  she  would  have  !  Always  to  be 
surrounded  by  beauty  and  luxury;  never,  perhaps,  to 
know  a  want.  And  his  soul  must  be  starved  in  order 
to  pamper  her. 

If  Stephen  Dane  could  have  looked  down  this  child's 
future  !  But  not  the  wildest  dream  could  have  con- 
nected him  with  her  then. 

Orders  poured  in  upon  Mr.  Vennard.  Night  and 
day  the  great  engines  were  in  motion.  What  did  he 
3 


36  STEPHEN   DANE. 

care  if  some  of  the  poor  wretches  at  the  tavern  mut- 
tered threats  and  imprecations  ?  If  they  had  chosen  to 
obey  the  rules,  they  might  have  still  held  their  places. 
It  was  not  his  fault. 

One  night  they  were  casting.  There  was  no  moon, 
and  the  great  sheet  of  flame  from  the  chimney  struck 
vividly  against  the  deep-blue  sky.  Myriads  of  sparks 
rayed  off  like  shooting  stars.  It  was  a  strange,  weird 
sight  from  without,  but  a  hundred  fold  more  intense 
within.  And  so  Mrs.  Vennard  brought  her  guests 
down  to  inspect  it.  Few  of*  them  had  witnessed  the 
work  on  so  grand  a  scale. 

They  looked  like  spirits  from  another  world,  those 
gayly-dressed  ladies  and  fine  gentlemen.  Little  shrieks 
and  exclamations  were  drowned  amid  the  unearthly  din. 
They  gathered  up  their  dresses  daintily,  and  kept  by 
the  open  windows  to  avoid  the  smothering  heat,  peering 
now  and  then  into  these  molten  red  streams,  that  seemed 
to  crawl  along  the  ground  like  fiery  serpents.  It 
formed  a  striking  picture,  with  just  sufficient  of  the 
weird  to  give  it  a  touch  of  diablerie. 

Stephen  Dane  was  not  very  busy:  in  fact  he  had 
been  promoted  from  the  casting-shop  to  one  of  the 
forges ;  though  he  came  down  nearly  every  night,  be- 
cause he  liked  it,  and  he  could  think  better  here  than 
in  that  comfortless  home,  with  Joe's  unceasing  chatter. 
The  man  had  begun  to  find  much  enjoyment  in  the  use 
of  his  faculties.  Convinced  that  he  .was  not  a  mere 


TANGLED  PATHS.  37 

animal  product  of  nature,  but  held,  somewhere  within, 
a  sentient,  spiritual  vitality,  he  put  forth  some  feeble 
efforts,  like  a  child's  walking  at  first ;  but  there  was 
something  fascinating  in  it  that  lured  him  on. 

He  watched  the  group  out  beyond  with  a  strange 
feeling.  These  young  men  with  fair  foreheads,  care- 
fully trimmed  beards,  well-arranged  hair  and  dress, 
were  .different  from  him.  These  delicate  women,  with 
slender  white  hands  and  graceful  figures,  did  not  in  the 
least  resemble  Joe.  Was  it  the  accident  of  birth  and 
prosperity  only,  or  something  of  a  more  positive  and 
integral  nature?  Quite  a  new  speculation  for  him. 
Rather  annoying,  too ;  so  presently  he  strayed  around 
to  the  other  side,  where  their  brightness  and  beauty  no 
longer  jarred  upon  him. 

Some  one  pulled  him  gently,  and  a  little,  timid  voice 
uttered,  "Say  !  "  so  entreating  withal,  that  it  quite  sur- 
prised him.  But  turning,  he  was  still  more  astonished. 

She  looked  so  uncanny,  this  little  girl  of  seven  or 
thereabouts,  standing  in  the  shadowy  darkness,  her 
white  face,  her  pale  hair,  of  a  ripe  wheat  tint,  falling 
about  her  shoulders,  her  large,  lustrous  eyes,  her  dim- 
pled arms  and  tiny  hands,  all  so  distinctly  outlined 
against  the  black  background.  He  was  confused  and 
bewildered  by  the  vision,  and  gazed  at  her  with  some- 
thing more  than  amazement  —  incredulity. 

Her  upraised  glance  was  so  sweet  and  fearless  ! 

"  I  wish  you  would  hold  me  up  and  let  me  look  into 


38  STEPHEN   DANE. 

that  large  —  large  —  I  don't  know  what  you  call  it  — 
full  of  iron." 

"What,  the  kettle?"  he  said,  just  under  his  breath, 
hardly  knowing  whether  he  dared  answer  her  or  not. 

"  Yes.  I  want  to  see.  Mamma  and  the  rest  looked 
in ;  but  she  said  wait  for  papa  to  lift  me.  He  hasn't 
come  yet." 

"You  will  not  be  afraid?" 

"No."  And  she  gave  such  a  soft,  musical  laugh. 
"You'll  hold  me  tight  —  won't  you?  and  your  arms  are 
good  and  strong." 

His  sleeves  were  rolled  up  nearly  to  the  shoulders. 
Great,  strong  arms  they  were,  indeed,  with  swelling 
muscles  and  hard,  brown  skin.  But  he  kept  on  glan- 
cing at  her  in  a  sort  of  vacant  surprise. 

"Well  I"  she  remarked  at  length. 

He  stepped  outside  the  door,  and,  from  a  niche  in  the 
passage-way,  took  down  a  coat  of  soft  gray  cloth,  that 
one  of  the  men  had  worn.  He  remembered  noticing 
at  noon  that  it  had  been  improved  by  a  recent  washing. 

"  Are  you  going  to  wrap  me  up  in  that  ?  "  And  she 
laughed  again. 

It  sent  a  thrill  all  over  him.  He  had  never  heard 
anything  so  sweet  in  all  his  life  before,  unless  it  was  a 
brook  purling  over  some  pebbly  descent. 

"  O,  no.  Only  I'm  all  dust  and  grime,  and  should 
soil  you.  So  I'll  just  throw  this  coat  over  my  arm  and 
shoulder." 


TANGLED   PATHS.  39 

She  looked  down  at  her  pale-blue  dress,  with  its 
white  braided  edge,  and  gave  a  little,  dainty  smile. 

He  stooped  to  take  her,  and  then  he  paused,  trem- 
bling in  every  nerve  with  some  unwonted  emotion.  A 
very  angel,  as  Joe  had  said. 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  me  because  my  dress  is  so  nice  ?  " 

"No,  not  that ;  and  yet  I  am  afraid  of  you." 

He  spoke  the  simple  truth. 

"Why?"  she  asked,  wonderingly. 

"I  cannot  tell  you."  And  then,  with  a  great  effort, 
he  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"O,  how  tall  you  are  !  "  she  exclaimed,  clasping  her 
tiny  hands  joyously.  "It's  like  going  up  to  the  moon. 
I  can  see  over  the  tops  of  the  men's  heads.  And  how 
odd  it  all  looks  !  " 

"  It's  very  hot  there  by  the  furnace,"  he  said  slowly. 

"  It  won't  burn  me,  just  for  a  moment.  I  want  to  see, 
so  much ! " 

He  picked  his  way  over  the  smoking  moulds,  holding 
his  precious  burden  in  the  tenderest  clasp.  He  could 
not  think  of  her  in  connection  with  Sally  Fawcett's 
dirty  children,  who  played  in  the  lane  —  the  only  chil- 
dren he  had  hitherto  been  brought  much  in  contact  with. 

She  drew  her  breath  in  a  quick,  excited  manner  as 
they  approached  the  seething  mass.  The  men  were 
dipping  it  out  with  huge,  long-handled  ladles,  and 
paused  for  a  moment  to  stare  at  her.  A  strange  vision 
was  that  lovely,  childish  face  amid  the  rough,  stalwart 
forms. 


40  STEPHEN   DANE. 

She  turned  suddenly,  and  clasped  her  arms  around 
Stephen  Dane's  neck.  The  soft,  pinky  flesh  touched 
his  lip  and  cheek  in  passing.  She  caught  at  a  long, 
convulsive  sigh,  and  he  felt.how  every  pulse  quivered  as 
he  turned  away. 

"  Were  you  frightened  ? "  he  asked,  when  they  had 
regained  the  doorway. 

"Not  quite.  Only  I  thought,  if  anybody  ever  let  a 
little  girl  fall  in  —  " 

Both  shivered ;  she  with  her  arms  still  around  his 
neck  —  soft,  white  arms,  stirring  all  his  manhood's 
blood. 

"  What  made  you  think  of  anything  so  terrible  ?  It 
could  never,  never  happen." 

He  drew  her  closer. 

"Mamma  said  Mr.  Lawton  might  let  me  fall.  But 
you  are  stronger." 

He  rejoiced  in  his  strength  at  that  moment ;  but  he 
said,  with  a  rather  grim  smile,  — 

"I  am  not  one  of  your  fine  gentlemen." 

"  I  don't  like  Mr.  Lawton,"  was  her  comment. 

She  would  like  him  by  and  by,  when  the  years 
taught  her  the  difference.  And  then  Stephen  Dane 
sighed. 

"Have  you  any  little  girls  at  home?"  she  asked, 
presently. 

"No." 

"  What  makes  you  look  so  sorry  ?  " 


TANGLED  PATHS.  41 

She  was  peering  into  his  eyes  with  her  lustrous  orbs 
swimming  in  lakes  of  liquid  light. 

"Did  I  look  sorry?" 

"Don't  you  like  little  girls?"  She  was  following 
her  own  train  of  thought,  and  hardly  noticed  his 
question. 

"I  like  you."  There  was  a  strange,  half-suppressed 
passion  in  his  voice. 

"  May  I  come  down  here  sometimes  ?  Papa  thinks 
me  a  bother.  It's  so  lonesome  at  —  at  home  ! "  There 
was  a  little  break  in  her  voice.  "I  haven't  any  one  to 
play  with,  you  know.  And  at  Philadelphia  there  was 
Addie  and  Jane.  It  was  so  nice !  What's  your 
name?"  with  a  sudden  impulse. 

"  Stephen  Dane." 

"  Did  you  come  from  Denmark  ?  " 

"  No  ;  "  and  he  laughed.     "  Why  ?  " 

"  The  Danes  do.  I  learned  it  in  my  Geography. 
I  went  to  school  when  I  lived  with  aunt  Mary.  I  am 
going  again  some  day.  I  like  it." 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked. 

"O,  don't  you  know?     Hope  Vennard." 

"Hope."     He  repeated  it  musingly,  tenderly. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  pretty  ?  "  she  queried  with  a  little 
timid  flutter  in  her  voice. 

"Yes.  -Hope.  Something  to  comfort  one  in  wait- 
ing. An  anchor  sure  and  steadfast,  if  one  only  has 
something  to  hope  for." 


42  STEPHEN   DANE. 

"Now  you  are  sorry  again,"  she  said.  "I  see  it  in 
your  eyes." 

So  quick  to  perceive  !  He  started.  Who  ever  before 
had  discovered  any  sorrow  in  his  eyes  ?  And  there  was 
always  a  deep,  underlying  pain  in  his  heart.  Even 
this  unreasoning  sympathy  was  sweet. 

She  bent  suddenly  and  kissed  him.  Mr.  Lawton 
teased  a  long  while  for  these  kisses,  and  her  new 
mother  apologized  for  her  being  such  a  "  queer  child." 
If  either  of  them  had  seen  this  ! 

Stephen  Dane  stood  transfixed. 

"I'm  glad  you  let  me  look  in  that  dreadful  place,  and 
held  me  so  tight.  Now  put  me  down,  please  ;  I  must 
find  mamma." 

He  led  her  by  the  hand  around  outside  the  noisy 
room.  When  they  saw  the  fluttering  dresses,  he  let 
her  go  alone,  but  stood  still  to  watch  her. 

"  Why,  Hope,  where  have  you  been  ?  I  thought 
your  father  had  you.  What  a  naughty  little  run- 
away ! " 

The  voice  was  not  cross,  certainly;  but  it  had  a 
strand  of  pettishness.  And  Stephen,  remembering  Joe's 
words,  wondered  if  Mrs.  Vennard  would  be  kind  and 
tender  with  her.  If  not —  He  ground  his  teeth  at 
the  very  thought.  He  could  fight  to  the  bitterest  death 
for  this  little  girl.  All  his  chivalrous  feelings  were 
aroused,  and  under  the  dust  and  rubbish  of  this  coarse 


TANGLED  PATHS.  43 

life  there  was  some  pure  ore.  She  had  kissed  him, 
too.  An  innocent  child's  kiss  —  a  sort  of  angel's 
benison.  If  one  day  he  could  stand  on  a  par  with 
Hope  Vennard  !  In  ten  years  she  would  be  seventeen 
—  a  woman.  And  what  of  him? 


44  STEPHEN   DANE. 


ni. 

FIGHTING  WITH  FATE. 

JOE,  sewing  some  tawdry  finery  by  the  flaring  light 
of  a  tallow  candle,  struck  hard  and  sharp  against 
his  vision  of  Hope  Vennard.  The  low  line  of  forehead, 
and  untidy,  tumbled  black  hair,  with  a  stray  end 
always  falling  from  the  comb ;  the  sun-browned  com- 
plexion ;  the  sort  of  purely  animal  life  in  every  feature  ; 
the  ill-fitting  dress,  and  great  red  bow  at  the  throat, 
much  soiled  and  pinned  awry,  —  how  different  from  the 
women  down  yonder !  He  liked  the  taste  and  the  re- 
finement best.  If  Joe  could  only  understand  I 

She  was  arranging  some  faded  flowers  on  a  bonnet. 
He  glanced  at  those  in  the  window. 

"Don't  do  it,  Joe,"  he  said,  presently.  "I'll  get  you 
a  new  one.  White  straw,  with  nice  crisp  buds,  and 
leaves,  and  clean  strings." 

"  Will  you  ?  "  and  Joe  looked  up  delighted. 

"And  if  you'd  wear  flowers  at  your  throat,  Joe." 

"I  can't,  Stephen.  They  all ers  fall  apart,  and  wilt, 
and  straggle  down.  I  like  'em  best  in  a  saucer." 

"Always,  Joe." 


FIGHTING   WITH   FATE.  45 

"Always  what?"  and  the  girl's  expression  was  one 
of  dull  amaze. 

"Don't  mangle  your  words  —  that's  all." 

Joe  pouted  a  little.  "You're  gettin'  mighty  per- 
tic'lar,  Stephen." 

"There's  no  law  against  g's.  And,  Joe,  if  we  were 
more  careful !  We  have  fallen  into  such  a  slipshod 
habit  of  talking  !  Why  can  we  not  make  our  lives  and 
manners  a  little  better  ?  " 

Joe  considered  a  moment  whether  to  be  pleased  or 
angry.  She  did  not  like  to  have  her  ways  questioned 
or  criticised.  But  then  it  was  pleasant  to  know  Stephen 
took  an  interest  in  her.  He  had  been  so  reserved,  so 
almost  cross,  of  late.  She  said,  unthinkingly,  — 

"You  do  care  about  me,  Stephen?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  should  be  a  brute  if  I  didn't." 

His  heart  was  tender  to-night.  But  when  he  saw 
her  evident  pleasure,  and  the  straggling  flush  that  crept 
up  in  the  dark  cheeks,  conscience  pricked  him  a  little. 
The  old  childish  talk  of  husband  and  wife  rushed  over 
him.  Many  years  ago,  to  be  sure ;  but  he  remembered, 
and  Joe,  with  a  woman's  tenacious  memory,  was  not 
likely  to  forget.  Was  she  dreaming  of  any  such  thing  ? 
For  it  could  never  be. 

So  he  sauntered  out  on  the  door-step,  and  gazed  at 
the  glittering  stars.  Up  above  there,  so  peacefid. 
Nothing  to  do  but  swing  forever,  amid  seas  of  blue  and 
fleecy  white.  Wafts  it  so  very  much  better  to  be  a  man? 


46  STEPHEN   DANE. 

Joe  put  away  her  work,  and  came  up  to  him  softly, 
passed  her  arm  over  his  shoulder,  and,  bringing  herself 
face  to  face,  kissed  him.  Following  out  his  first  im- 
pulse, he  pushed  her  from  him  —  not  roughly,  and  yet 
it  was  a  repulse. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  you, 
Stephen,"  she  said,  half  crying.  "  You're  so  changed 
along  o'  goin'  to  the  tavern  and  seein'  that  John  Gil- 
bert. O  my  !  I  forgot  all  about  them  g's.  I  can't  be 
a  lady,  —  it  wasn't  born  in  me,  —  and  that's  why  you 
look  down  on  me  —  despise  me  ! " 

"No.  Heaven  knows  I  don't  despise  you,  Joe.  And 
I'd  like  to  bring  you  up  out  of  this  swamp  of  vilenesa 
and  darkness  that  we've  ploughed  along  in  all  our  lives. 
I  loathe  the  very  sight  of  it.  I  am  changed.  Maybe 
John  Gilbert's  had  a  hand  in  it,  maybe  not.  I  did 
take  his  rigmarole  for  gospel  truth  first ;  but  if  it's  so 
grand  and  fine,  why  doesn't  he  make  his  own  life 
better?  Why  doesn't  he  go  somewhere,  if  there  is  any 
such  place,  and  be  free  and  happy,  following  out  the 
laws  of  truth  and  harmony  ?  What's  the  theory  worth 
if  there's  to  be  no  practice  ?  Better  let  men  go  on  eat- 
ing and  drinking,  and  grovelling  like  brutes,  than  stir 
them  up  to  fierce  tumults,  and  leave  them  there,  chafing 
like  angry  tigers.  So  I'm  about  done  with  the  non- 
sense. But  there  is  something,  Joe.  Call  it  God,  or 
Fate,  or  the  Devil.  And  I  shall  never  rest  until  I 
have  a  'good  hand-to-hand  fight." 


FIGHTING    WITH   FATE.  47 

"I  wish  you'd  go  to  church,  Stephen,"  Joe  said. 
"Ministers  know  better  than  other  folks." 

"Do  they?  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  They  preach 
about  content,  and  patience,  and  resignation  ;  but  when 
a  man  begins  to  learn  his  own  strength,  when  he  feels 
his  own  wants  and  needs,  what  good  will  a  crust  of 
bread  do?  Can  you  feed  a  starving  soul  on  it? 
There's  an  ache  and  an  agony  way  down  deep ;  there's 
a  capacity  for  something  that  struggles  in  bonds,  and 
will  be  free ;  and,  when  a  man  comes  to  this,  he  must 
fight  it  out.  So,  if  I'm  cross  to  you,  Joe,  blame  it  to 
the  devil,  that  possesses  me  ! " 

His  tone  was  deep  and  passionate,  and  Joe  stared 
in  affright.  He  was  beyond  her  reach.  His  head  was 
full  of  these  new-fangled  notions.  Her  narrow  mind, 
bounded  only  by  yesterday  and  to-morrow,  could  not 
comprehend  the  mighty  conflict  the  man  was  going 
through.  A  little  fondling  and  foolish  caresses  would 
have  been  more  to  her  than  his  victory  or  defeat.  And 
because  she  could  not  argue,  she  relapsed  into  sullen- 
ness —  the  unfailing  refuge  of  weak  natures.  Sally 
Fawcett,  fat  and  rosy  at  forty,  with  her  six  unruly 
children,  and  Jake,  "  who  never  gave  her  a  word  when 
he  was  in  liquor,"  was  as  high  a  type  of  happiness  as 
Joe  aspired  to.  For  Jake  was  fond  of  his  wife,  a  good- 
natured,  rollicking  fellow,  who  joked  with  every  one. 
Don't  blame  Joe  too  severely.  Her  soul,  restricted  by 
its  own  nature  and  stinted  experience,  had  only  the 


48  STEPHEN   DANE. 

wants  its  limited  range  allowed.  Her  fancies  were 
neither  broad  nor  varied.  Yet  she  could  have  enjoyed 
happiness  keenly  if  it  had  come  to  her.  O,  let  us  hope 
that  God  has  some  great  joy  in  store  for  all  the  poor 
souls  who  have  missed  it  here  ! 

So  Joe  crept  away  to  bed  and  cried  a  little.  And 
Stephen  stood  under  the  silent  stars,  thinking,  revolv- 
ing the  tangled  web  that  appeared  to  grow  more  intri- 
cate at  every  turn. 

The  socialistic  theories  of  Gilbert  had  not  gained 
much  ground  with  him.  He  was  too  clear-eyed.  Men 
blinded  by  some  passion  or  interest  are  more  likely  to 
take  them  up.  Perhaps,  too,  he  was  gradually  finding 
his  way  into  the  niche  he  fitted.  Since  his  permanent 
change  to  the  forge  he  had  been  happier.  His  mind 
seemed  to  assimilate  with  these  mighty  engines  that 
grew  beneath  ponderous  hammers  and  blazing  fires.  It 
was  almost  like  creating  a  sentient  being,  when  you  put 
these  rods,  and  pistons,  and  valves  together,  and  inflated 
a  steam  chest  from  the  huge  boiler.  That  gave  it  life. 
Then  it  flew  up  and  down,  wheels  revolved ;  the  force 
of  a  giant  was  in  it.  And  Stephen  smiled,  seeing  this. 
The  Phalanstery,  with  its  special  affinities,  its  harmo- 
nies of  beauty  and  nature,  faded  from  his  brain.  His 
work  was  here.  Men  had  spent  their  whole  lives  study- 
ing some  trick  of  a  machine  or  engine.  And  when  Ad- 
ams, the  foreman  of  this  department,  said,  one  day,  — 

"Dane,  you  have  the  head  and  the  eye  for  an  in- 


FIGHTING   WITH   FATE.  49 

ventor.  Some  time  I  expect  we  shall  hear  from  you. 
You  see  more  in  these  things  than  a  bit  of  hot  or  cold 
iron."  A  flush  overspread  Stephen  Dane's  swarthy  face. 

So  much  was  needed.  How  was  he  ever  to  accom- 
plish it  ?  Education  first.  And  then  he  realized  how 
ignorant  he  was. 

I  think  Adams  understood  the  hunger  of  his  soul. 
Occasionally  they  walked  up  the  street  together,  talk- 
ing. And  presently  books  were  lent,  a  sort  of  free- 
masonry among  certain  men.  Vennard,  seeing  the 
intimacy  with  his  lynx-eye,  took  the  foreman  to  task. 

"It  won't  do,  Adams.  I've  seen  it  tried.  These 
men  must  be  made  to  know  their  places,  and  kept  in 
them.  Their  business  is  to  work.  The  less  book- 
knowleflge  and  science  such  folks  have,  the  better  for 
them.  They  get  above  their  station.  Many  a  poor 
wretch  has  ruined  himself  by  .thinking  he  had  genius 
enough  for  some  invention,  when  he  might  have  lived 
a  contented  and  comfortable  life.  Plenty  of  work  and 
steady  wages  are  all  they  need.  I  have  them  in  pretty 
good  order  now,  and  they  shall  not  be  tampered  with." 

Adams  gave  in,  and  was  a  little  more  cautious.  He 
was  no  coward,  but  he  knew  he  could  not  serve  Dane 
by  braving  Mr.  Vennard,  and  the  man  interested  him 
singularly. 

June  made  Tregony  a  garden  of  fragrance  and  beauty. 
Roses  everywhere.  New  life  in  tree  and  shrub,  bird 
and  bee.  Wayside  paths  starred  with  daisies  and  but- 


50  STEPHEN   DANE. 

terctips ;  cool  nooks  entangled  with  clustering  foliage 
and  carpeted  with  rank  mosses.  The  river  with  its 
murmurous  rustle,  the  sky  with  its  fleecy  drifts  —  every- 
where a  profusion  of  summer  richness  and  warmth. 
Stephen  Dane  felt  it  as  he  never  had  before.  Emerging 
from  the  shadow  of  a  gross,  material  life,  he  drank  in 
these  varied  sensations  with  an  almost  childish  delight. 
It  was  a  new  growing  up  to  manhood. 

Now  and  then  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Hope  Vennard. 
The  child  looked  bright  and  happy.  Once  she  had 
nodded  to  him  in  her  free,  eager  way,  and  been  checked 
by  her  elegant  mamma.  He  saw  that,  and  bit  his  lip. 
And  once  she  had  been  in  the  foundery. 

They  had  been  trying  some  experiments  with  an 
engine.  An  improvement  had  been  Attempted  in  the 
saving  of  steam,  and  several  scientific  men  had  come 
down  from  the  city  to  witness  the  trial.  All  the  morn- 
ing they  had  been  deeply  engrossed  with  it ;  but  alter 
a  good  dinner  and  rich  wines  they  felt  less  energetic. 
So  they  had  invited  the  ladies  over,  for  Mrs.  Ven- 
nard nearly  always  had  a  friend  or  two  staying  with 
her.  Hope  accompanied  them. 

Stephen  always  remembered  her  as  she  looked  on 
this  day.  Dressed  purely  in  white,  her  curls  fluttering 
like  a  changeful  sea.  So  winsome,  so  radiant.  And 
while  the  others  talked,  she  stole  to  the  open  door 
through  which  she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  Stephen. 

"  May  I  come  in  ?  " 


FIGHTING    WITH   FATE.  51 

Stephen  stood  by  a  vice,  filing  some  article  that  re- 
quired careful  manipulations. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  with  a  smile. 

She  came  and  stood  by  him,  plied  him  with  a  child's 
numerous  and  inconsequent  questions,  all  of  which  he 
was  delighted  to  answer,  watching  the  lids  droop  over 
the  eyes,  the  color  come  and  go  in  her  sweet  face,  and 
the  curves  of  the  small,  scarlet  mouth  like  a  cleft 
strawberry,  and  as  rich  in  fragrance.  Could  any  thing 
so  lovely  belong  to  Thomas  Vennard?  He  was  think- 
ing of  this  when  a  harsh  voice  made  them  both  start  as 
if  guilty  of  some  sin.  ••.  ^ 

"  Hope ! " 

The  child's  face  turned  a  little  pale.  Vennard  was 
a  tyrant  by  nature.  Even  here  he  could  not  forego 
his  authority*  always  dear  to  him. 

"Dane,  haven't  you  any  more  sense  than  to  let  a 
child  bother  round  in  that  fashion?  Hope,  go  to  your 
mother." 

"  She  did  not  interrupt  me,"  said  Dane,  in  a  sort  of 
defiant  apology. 

"  Don't  tell  me  !  A  man's  mind  isn't  on  his  work 
when  he's  fooling  with  anything.  You've  filed  that 
too  far." 

"It's  just  right."  And  Dane  fitted  it  to  the  cog. 
He  would  have  been  more  than  human  not  to  enjoy  his 
triumph. 

Mr.  Vennard  was  angry,  and  for  .once  helpless,  as 
4 


52  STEPHEN   DANE. 

he  could  not  think  of  a  fitting  retort.  So  he  turned  on 
his  heel  with  a  threatening  frown. 

Adams  came  to  Stephen's  side,  after  they  were  all 
gone. 

"Vennard  is  bitterly  disappointed  at  his  non-suc- 
cess," he  said,  in  a  low  tone.  "I  didn't  know  he 
counted  so  much  on  it.  He  wouldn't  let  any  one  put 
in  a  word,  for  he  meant  to  claim  the  improvement." 

"  What  was  wrong  ?  " 

"  There  was  just  no  advantage  at  all.  What  he  saved 
in  steam  he  lost  in  revolutions.  Misplaced  economy, 
which,  will  not  do  for  a  steam-engine.  You  can  starve 
a  man  better,  eh,  Dane?" 

"For  a  while,  at  least,"  returned  Dane,  grimly. 

"  \iennard  is  making  haste  to  be  rich.  If  I  had  his 
chance,  I'd  take  matters  comfortably.  He  will  have 
all  old  Ellicott's  money.  WThat  a  fairy  of  a  child  that 
is  !  She  came  in  here  ?  " 

"Yes."  Laconically.  He  did  not  want  to  hear  any 
talk  about  Hope  Vennard. 

"I  think  that  can  be  done;"  and  Adams  nodded 
his  head  towards  the  next  room.  "  Will  you  look  at  it 
after  six?  Why,  it  would  make  a  man's  fortune  !  " 

"Yes,"  Dane  said,  the  words  ringing  through  his 
ears.  Not  that  he  would  ever  make  a  fortune.  But 
if  he  had  a  little  money  to  start  with,  —  he  and  Adams, 
for  instance,  —  time  to  study  and  try  experiments  — 
No,  it  could  never  be  done ;  and  he  sighed. 


FIGHTING    WITH   FATE.  53 

The  worst  of  life  is  to  feel  one's  self  wasted.  And 
this  sensation  was  growing  up  in  Stephen  Dane.  Why 
didn't  he  have  the  chance  other  young  men  passed  by 
with  such  indifference?  A  subtile  flame  was  creeping 
through  his  brain,  smouldering  almost  for  want  of 
proper  nourishment,  yet  now  and  then  bursting  out  into 
a  fierce  ray ;  every  time  gaining  a  little,  to  be  sure,  but 
seeing  no  real  escape.  Ground  down  with  poverty, 
ignorance,  and  —  yes,  a  sort  of  caste.  Adams  might 
see  something  worthier  in  him ;  but  then  the  man  was 
almost  as  poor  as  himself,  saving  a  little  money,  and 
trying  experiments  that  failed  continually.  If  Mr. 
Vennard  would  take  one  in  hand ;  and  a  cynical  sneer 
—  for  it  was  too  bitter  for  a  smile  —  crossed  Dane's  face. 
Mr.  Vennard  believed  common  workmen  had  no  busi- 
ness with  ideas.  Rude,  brutish  strength  was  all  they 
needed. 

They  did  not  dare  linger  very  long  over  the  engine. 
Neither  would  have  confessed  it,  but  both  knew  this 
sort  of  fraternizing  did  not  meet  Mr.  Vennard's  ap- 
proval. And  every  one  had  a  fear  of  him,  even  if  it 
was  but  half  admitted  in  some  secret  corner  of  the  brain. 

"Will  Vennard  try  again,  think?"  Dane  asked. 

"O,  you  may  be  sure  of  that,  if  some  one  doesn't 
come  out  first  with  an  improvement.  Dane,"  sharply, 
"  if  you  have  any  revelations  on  the  subject,  sell  'em 
at  a  high  figure.  Don't  let  'em  be  stolen.  That  thing  is 
done  too  often." 


54  STEPHEN   DANE. 

Neither  of  them  had  any  ideas  just  then.  They 
examined  the  steam-chest,  the  valves,  the  cut-off, — 
and  looking  at  each  other  with  perplexed  eyes,  said,  as 
many  another  had, — 

"  If  it  could  be  done  !  " 

Stephen  Dane  made  a  sort  of  dogged  mental  vow 
that  life  should  not  all  be  wasted  over  yonder,  at  the 
forge. 

He  passed  out  first.  Adams  paused  to  talk  with  the 
gate-keeper.  But  Dane's  steps  were  arrested,  ere  he 
had  gone  thirty  yards,  by  a  group  of  men. 

"  I  say  it's  a  cursed  shame  ! "  and  the  speaker,  purple 
with  anger,  was  gesticulating  savagely.  "  If  Vennard 
stays  here,  Tregony  '11  be  turned  into  a  pauper's  den. 
What  kin  we  do,  I'd  like  to  know?  I've  got  an  old 
bed-ridden  mother,  and  five  little  cubs,  one  on  'em  blind, 
and  a  month  back  at  the  store.  What  am  I  goin'  to 
do?  Where'll  I  get  work?  An'  he  brings  in  new 
men  every  day,  an'  if  a  man  dares  to  stan'  up  for  his 
rights,  off  he  goes.  'Twan't  so  in  Reardon's  time,  and 
old  Ellicott  never  ground  the  soul  out  of  a  man  in  that 
way.  I  say  everybody  oughter  rise  and  drum  Yennard 
out  of  the  place.  It's  that,  or  starvin'  for  us  an'  our 
children  ! " 

"  What's  the  row  with  Forbes?  "  asked  Dane. 

"  Bin  discharged  ;  four  on  'em." 

Thomas  Vennard's  anger  had  s'pent  itself  here,  when 
it  might  have  been  vented  on  him.  Perhaps  better. 


FIGHTING   WITH    FATE.  55 

From  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  pitied  Forbes,  think- 
ing of  the  home  where  want  must  soon  stare  them  in 
the  face,  unless  charity  fed  them. 

Forbes  had  commenced  again.  He  was  spokesman 
for  the  party,  and  ill-judged  as  his  harangue  was,  it 
contained  a  certain  amount  of  truth  and  rugged  elo- 
quence, interspersed  with  now  and  then  a  vengeful  oath. 

Some  one  touched  Dane's  shoulder.  Turning,  he 
beheld  Adams. 

"  Come  along,"  said  the  latter,  almost  crossly. 

Stephen  looked  fairly  at  him,  with  an  expression  that 
said,  proudly  enough,  — 

"My  sympathies  are  here." 

"I  know  it,"  the  other  answered,  as  if  the  look  had 
been  words  :  "  but  what  good  do  you  do,  listening  to 
an  angry  man's  denunciation  of  something  he  doesn't 
understand  ?  " 

"  He  seems  to  understand  that  he  and  his  children 
may  starve." 

"When  you  want  to  demolish  a  solid  stone  wall,  it's 
best  not  to  take  your  fist.  Forbes  and  Benner  have 
carried  their  point  a  little  too  far.  Mr.  Vennard 
doesn't  allow  of  but  one  master.  They  knew  it. 
They  had  seen  it  tried  before." 

He  was  leading  Stephen  away. 

"  We  don't  look  at  these  things  in  the  same  light," 
said  Dane,  in  a  resolute  tone.  "You  don't  like  Ven- 
nard, yet  you  always  stand  up  for  him." 


56  STEPHEN   DANE. 

"From  a  principle  you  would  call  cowardly  and 
selfish,  I  suppose.  I  think  it  is  best  that  the  workmen 
should  learn  that  he  is  to  be  obeyed.  If  you  want  the 
employment,  you  must  take  it  on  his  terms.  There's 
no  other  large  iron  works  around  here.  He  can  dictate, 
and  he  means  to.  It's  fighting  against  the  stone  wall, 
as  I  said." 

"  And  a  man's  to  give  up  all  his  independence,  all 
his  spirit,  his  sense  of  what  is  right  and  just — " 

w  Dane,  you  are  a  little  too  far  on  one  side.  Ven- 
nard  is  a  hard  master  in  some  respects,  I  grant,  but  he 
pays  the  men  as  well  as  they  have  ever  been  paid 
before,  — " 

"  And  works  them  twice  as  hard !  "  was  the  bitter 
interruption. 

"I  think  they  had  fallen  into  very  idle,  disorderly 
habits.  It  takes  pretty  hard  discipline  to  bring  such 
men  around  straight.  Vennard's  had  a  sharp  way  of 
doing  it,  I  grant  you,  but  he  hasn't  asked  for  any  more 
than  his  own.  When  he  went  down  and  found  Forbes 
and  some  of  the  others  playing  '  seven  up,'  he  dis- 
charged them  on  the  spot.  That  they  had  only  been 
playing  a  few  moments,  while  there  was  nothing  for 
them  to  do,  was  no  excuse  whatever  in  his  eyes.  It  was 
his  time  they  were  using  for  their  own  gratification. 
And  in  trying  to  justify  themselves,  they  made  him 
still  more  angry.  He  wasn't  in  the  best  of  humor,  you 
know." 


FIGHTING    WITH   FATE.  57 

K  It  was  a  mean  shame !  And  Forbes  is  a  good, 
honest  \v  irkman.  He  doesn't  pull  off  his  apron  with 
the  first  stroke  of  the  bell.  I've  seen  him  stop  minutes 
to  finish  something." 

"Mr.  Vennard  doesn't  ask  that.  He  wouldn't  take 
a  favor  fron  a  workman.  When  he  gets  what  he 
has  paid  for,  he  is  satisfied,  but  he  wants  every  inch 
of  that.  You  were  right  when  you  said  I  didn't  like 
him.  I  might  brave  him  to-morrow,  and  the  next  day 
find  a  new  place.  I've  no  family  to  keep  me  here,  or 
to  starve,  if  I  was  out  of  work  u  while.  But  since 
I've  taken  the  position,  and  know  pretty  well  what 
he  wants,  I'll  satisfy  him  if  it's  in  my  power.  I 
think  I  can  do  it  without  losing  my  independence, 
except  just  so  much  as  I  knowingly  relinquished 
when  I  made  my  bargain.  A  person  in  an  inferior 
position  has  to  yield  something.  Why  not  do  it  with 
a  good  grace  ?  " 

Stephen  Dane  walked  along  moodily.  Presently 
a  savage  glow  shot  out  of  his  eye. 

"  It's  always  the  way  !  These  men  with  money  and 
power  are  tyrants." 

w  Yes,  you  find  it  so  pretty  often." 
. "  And  is  the  world  to  go  on  so  forever  ?     Are  the 
rich  always  to  grind  the  souls  of  the  poor  ?  " 

"  The  world's  a  big  place,  Dane.  And  there  are 
many  noble  exceptions,  I  am  glad  to  admit.  We 
have  fallen  upon  one  of  the  hard  problems.  Ven- 


58  STEPHEN    DANE. 

nard  has  a  narrow  mind,  and  cannot  see  consequences. 
He  thinks  his  system  is  perfect.  But  ther ;  is  such 
a  thing  as  crowding  on  too  much  steam.  Whether  he 
will  be  able  to  find  men  to  fill  these  places  five  years 
hence,  is  a  question  !  " 

"  Then  he'll  shut  up  the  place.  I  can't  fancy  Ven- 
nard  giving  in.  But  as  Forbes  said,  he  will  make 
Tregony  a  pauper's  den." 

"Yes.  These  men  can  never. see,  after  all.  When 
you  teach  a  workman  to  respect  himself,  to  be  prov- 
ident, to  educate  hi»  children,  to  lay  up  a  little  money 
if  possible,  you  have  made  a  good  citizen  for  the  state, 
a  man  whose  honor  you  can  depend  on.  You  will  not 
.have  to  be  taxed  for  his  support  in  the  poorhouse. 
But  Vennard  looks  only  at  to-day.  He  wants  the 
work  done  so  he  can  see  the  immediate  profits.  I  don't 
know  that  heaven  or  earth  could  convert  him  to  any 
other  way  of  thinking.  So  the  men  must  study  self- 
interest.  Since  it  is  necessary  for  them  to  have  employ- 
ment, they  must  abide  by  his  laws.  They  are  in  no 
position  to  dictate." 

"It's  a  burning,  bitter  shame,"  broke  in  Dane,  with 
the  scornful  indignation  of  a  generous  man. 

"  But  one  must  take  the  world  as  he  finds  it ; "  and 
Adams  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Hj3  had  many  good 
impulses,  but  he  would  never  have  made  a  philan- 
thropist. 

They  halted  at  the  corner,  where  their  paths  diverged. 


FIGHTING    WITH    FATE.  59 

"  Leave  these  men  to  settle  their  squabbles,  Dane,  and 
think  of  the  engine.  There's  a  fortune  for  some  one  in 
that,"  Adams  said,  as  a  parting  rejoinder. 

But  Stephen  Dane  was  in  no  mood  for  such  thought. 
He  felt  angry  and  sick  at  heart,  with  a  sense  of  black 
injustice  all  around  him.  Why  did  power  and  wealth 
ever  come  to  such  men  as  Thomas  Vennard?  Was 
there  a  God  who  kept  watch  of  these  matters,  checking 
them  off  when  they  reached  a  certain  point  ? 

He  had  been  to  church  the  Sunday  before  with  Joe, 
in  all  the  glory  of  her  new  bonnet.  A  little  Episcopa- 
lian Chapel,  and  in  their  reading  of  the  Psalter  these 
words  had  stirred  him  strangely  :  — 

"  /  myself  have  seen  the  ungodly  in  great  power, 
and  flourishing  like  a  green  bay  tree. 

"  I  went  by,  and  lo,  he  was  gone." 

Thomas  Vennard,  so  strongly  intrenched,  could  not 
be  easily  removed.  Dane  little  knew  how  he  was 
destined  to  think  of  this  again. 


60  STEPHEN  DANE. 

X 


IV. 

BY  THE  KlVER. 

IF  Joe  failed  to  understand  Stephen,  and  misinter- 
preted his  desire  for  her  improvement,  she  was  not 
ignorant  of  fi  keener  sensation  of  happiness  than  any 
she  had  hitherto  known ;  and  at  the  same  moment  a 
new  capability  for  pain  dawned  upon  her.  Stephen 
came  so  near  to  her  in  some  matters,  was  so  widely 
sundered  in  others.  And  whatever  took  him  from  her. 

—  the  tavern,  the  garden-plot  he  cultivated  this  sum- 
mer, his  books,  or  a  call  at  intervals  from  Mr.  Adams 

—  were  all  regarded  with  a  vague,  dull  jealousy.     He 
was  better-tempered  than  in  his  first  essay  after  knowl- 
edge.    His  heart  had  grown  broader,  his  patience  of  a 
finer    quality.      His    first    impulse   had   been   to  leave 
Tregony,  and  carve  out  a  new  life  for  himself,  distinct 
from  her's  and  his  father's.     Some  subtile  tie  held  him 
back.     Naturally,  I  think,  the  man  had  a  very  affec- 
tionate heart. 

So  he  staid,  and  tried  to  raise  them  out  of  this  slough 
he  meaut  to  leave  behind.     It  was  hard  work.     Archy 


BY   THE    RIVER.  61 

Dane  found  more  comfort  in  the  tavern  than  in  his  son's 
society.  Joe  was  prouder  of  her  new  finery  than  any 
mental  improvement.  She  had  no  ambition,  but  all  a 
woman's  tender,  longing  desire  —  foolish  also,  if  you 
will  —  to  be  loved.  And  when  Stephen  was  tender,  it 
seemed  as  if  the  blessing  was  not  so  far  distant.  More 
than  that  she  did  not  understand  in  him.  That  he 
might  be  rich  some  day  never  entered  her  head.  That 
he  might  gain  some  higher  station  was  equally  improb- 
able to  her.  In  fact,  why  should  he  want  it?  Were 
not  these  common-place  people  around  them  happy 
enough?  They  were  all  she  cared  to  know  about. 

Not  so  with  Stephen  Dane.  His  brain  had  been 
fired  with  new  "thoughts;  and,  though  only  half  com- 
prehended, he  meant  to  work  them  up  into  something 
higher  than  this  dogging  on  year  after  year.  He  wanted 
something  sharp,  incisive.  Pain,  even,  and  failure, 
were  better  than  stagnation.  And,  somewhere  in  the 
distance,  life  looked  noble  and  chivalric,  the  vulgarities 
cleared  off,  the  meannesses  drowned  out  by  an  overflow 
of  soul.  For  a  man  had  something  within  him,  call  it 
instinct,  or  even  ambition. 

It  was  hard  work.  No  one  that  would  understand 
these  daring  thoughts,  even  if  he  had  the  courage  to 
confess  them.  Not  even  Adams.  He  could  see  how 
Dane  might  like  to  invent,  or  improve  on  a  machine. 
So  much  steel,  and  iron,  and  steam  was  a  child  to  him. 
He  gave  it  the  love  of  husband  and  father.  He  would 


62  STEPHEN   DANE. 

spend  his  life  for  it.  It  was  a  mania  with  the  man ; 
and  though  he  occasionally  ran  foul  of  some  "ism,"  he 
was  not  sufficiently  interested  in  it  to  spend  much  time 
or  thought  combating  it.  The  greatest  elevation  the 
world  wanted,  in  his  eyes,  was  in  machinery.  As  to 
morals  and  virtues,  it  always  had  done  well  enough,  and 
always  would.  So  there  was  a  point  where  contact 
between  the  two  men  ceased. 

Perhaps  the  grace,  beauty,  and  culture  of  a  lost  gen- 
eration woke  to  existence  in  Stephen  Dane.  Some  whim 
of  blood,  having  long  lain  dormant,  was  exerting  itself. 
He  saw  a  possibility  in  the  steam-engine ;  but  beyond 
it,  a  broader  and  grander  one,  a  sphere  of  refinement, 
an  ease,  a  certain  elegance,  such  as  little  Hope  Vennard 
shook  out  of  every  fold  of  her  dress.  Her  father  was 
narrow  and  hard,  but  it  did  not  cling  to  her.  And 
when  he  had  won  a  place  in  the  world,  when  he  had 
acquired  the  ease,  the  education,  he  meant  to  have,  the 
home  with  its  books,  and  pictures,  and  fascinating  re- 
pose, —  this  was  what  he  could  not  tell ;  this  was 
what  made  the  great  gulf  between  him  and  Joe. 

He  went  on  with  sturdy  courage.  He  had  too  much 
hard  work  on  hand  to  stick  fast  in  the  tangled  depths 
where  John  Gilbert  floundered.  And  though  his  soul 
was  vexed  with  the  selfishness,  injustice,  and  crime  that 
stalked  about  rampant,  he  knew  his  beginning  must  be 
small :  Joe,  his  father,  and  himself.  After  that,  a  wider 


BY   THE   RIVER.  63 

They  studied  the  engine  daily,  he  and  Adams.  He 
had  much  natural  quickness  of  understanding,  penetra- 
tion, and  that  subtile  knowledge  connecting  cause  with 
effect.  Here  Adams  was  slower.  Yet  they  both  seemed 
as  far  from  the  discovery  as  Mr.  Vennard. 

The  affair  with  Forbes  had  created  quite  an  excite- 
ment. When  the  man's  anger  had  cooled  somewhat, 
and  stern  necessity  stared  him  blankly  in  the  face,  he 
had  humbled  himself  sufficiently  to  solicit  back  his  old 
place.  Mr.  Vennard  was  immovable.  No  entreaties 
could  soften  him.  It  was  a  rule  he  had  never  broken, 
and  never  would.  The  men  knew  one  discharge  was 
final.  And  so  Forbes,  with  the  passion  of  desperation, 
joined  the  disaffected,  drank  bad  rum,  and  made  threat- 
ening speeches.  Thomas  Vennard  did  not  care.  Quiet 
Tregony  would  have  dreamed  of  the  judgment-day  as 
soon  as  of  a  murderer  lying  in  wait ;  so  the  threats 
were  treated  as  idle  bravado,  and  remembered  at  a 
later  day,  when  they  proved  well  nigh  fatal. 

One  July  afternoon  Stephen  Dane  went  into  the 
engine-room  for  some  particular  screws  he  wanted.  It 
was  used  as  a  sort  of  general  receptacle  rather  than  a 
work-room.  Here  lay  prostrate  fly-wheels  of-  different 
sizes,  walking-beams  for  fast  river-boats,  cross-heads 
and  piston-rods,  lighter  machinery  for  manufacturing 
purposes,  waiting  for  some  hand  to  put  them  together 
in  their  proper  order,  and  the  breath  of  steam  to  endow 
them  with  life.  A  dim  atmosphere,  smoky  and  dusty, 


C4  STEPHEN   DANE. 

yet  bronzed  to  a  certain  beauty  by  the  broad  sheets  of 
sunlight  that  flowed  in  at  the  windows,  grimy  a'nd  cob- 
webbed  as  they  were.  It  always  appeared  so  strangely 
still  in  here  to  Stephen  ;  and  yet  he  could  hear  the  roar 
of  the  fires  below,  the  clang  of  hammers,  the  continu- 
ous rattle  of  bars  and  chains  in  transit.  Here  was  the 
engine  that  had  defied  Thomas  Vennard.,  If  it  had 
been  human  —  and  Stephen  Dane  gave  a  sort  of  grim 
smile.  Being  iron,  it  was  not  susceptible  to  the  master's 
frowns,  neither  could  it  be  discharged. 

He  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  eccentric-rod,  and  peered 
down  into  its  black  depths.  What  secret  did  it  hold? 
These  wheels  and  valves,  this  burnished  steel,  and  sil- 
very-gray iron.  What  power  was  mighty  enough  to 
extort  a  confession?  Was  there  a  fortune  in  it,  as 
Adams  had  said?  He  needed  the  fortune  sorely. 
Money  would  do  so  much  for  him  —  give  him  leisure 
and  cultivation,  time  and  material  for  experiments. 
What  torture  could  he  apply  to  this  great  dumb  thing? 
And  unconsciously  he  ground  his  teeth  and  clenched  his 
hands.  How  many  times  he  and  Adams  had  inspected 
it !  There  was  a  drawing  in  his  pocket  he  had  brought 
to  show  the  foreman,  who  was  absent  to-day  from  sud- 
den illness.  He  took  it  out,  and  went  over  it  with  his 
pencil,  comparing,  computing.  He  had  hit  upon  some- 
thing at  length,  a  slight  difference;  but  it  might  be  of 
momentous  import  to  them.  If  Adams  were  but  here  1 

He  did  not  see  the  cool,  keen  eye  that  glanced  in 


BY   THE    RIVER.  (55 

upon  him,  the  compressed  lips  and  significant  nod,  as 
the  paper  and  pencil  became  visible.  A  sort  of  evil, 
tyrannical  look,  that  meant  to  be  doubly  paid  for  this 
patience.  No,  for  a  sudden  moment  of  inspiration  came 
to  Stephen  Dane.  I  think  Thomas  Vennard  understood 
as  much,  watching  the  working  of  the  face.  The  dull, 
earthy  look  faded  out  of  it.  The  eyes  grew  luminous. 
The  fingers  could  hardly  keep  pace  with  the  thoughts. 

Whenever  Stephen  Dane  lived  over  this  period,  it 
seemed  to  him  like  a  flash,  a  breath.  Five  minutes,  at 
the  utmost,  he  would  have  said,  from  the  time  he  en- 
tered the  room,  intent  upon  the  screws,  until  a  slow, 
metallic  voice  startled  him. 

"I'll  take  that  now,  Dane,  if  you  are  through 
with  it." 

The  hot  blood  rushed  to  Stephen  Dane's  face  as  he 
beheld  Mr.  Vennard.  He  was  utterly  speechless. 

"Do  you  hear  me?"  sternly,  and  thrusting  out  his 
hand  until  the  bony  fingers  almost  settled  themselves 
upon  the  paper. 

Dane  drew  back,  all  the  man  within  him  roused.  He 
knew  he  had  come  to  an  issue  with  the  master,  the  very 
thing  he  had  hitherto  tried  to  avoid.  But  now  it  must 
be  met. 

"I  wanted  some  screws,"  he  began,  in  a  wandering, 
uncertain  manner,  as  if  but  half  awake. 

"  And  I  want  that  paper.  Give  it  to  me,  and  we'll  call 
it  square.  An  hour  of  my  time.  It  belongs  to  me." 


66  STEPHEN   DANE. 

Both  men  glanced  at  it.  The  eager  light  in  Ven- 
nard's  eyes  startled  Stephen  Dane.  If  that  little  plan 
was  worth  anything,  it  was  of  value  to  him. 

"  An  hour  !  "  he  said.    "  I  have  not  been  here  an  hour." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  I  lie  ?  I  passed  that 
door  one  hour  ago,  and  you  were  here." 

Vennard's  overreaching  defeated  itself  by  violence. 
Every  fibre  of  independence  in  Stephen  Dane's  nature 
was  roused. 

"No,  Mr.  Vennard,"  he  said,  with  a  cool  spirit  that 
exasperated  the  other.  I  had  no  such  thought.  It 
seems  the  briefest  moment  to  me,  and  yet  you  may  be 
right.  I  am  willing  to  lose  the  time." 

It  was  to  be  a  hand-to-hand  fight.  Bullying  would 
gain  nothing  here. 

The  two  men  eyed  each  other  closely.  Dane  saw 
that  his  race  in  the  Ellicott  Works  was  run ;  Vennard 
read  that  he  had  a  powerful  adversary. 

"I  want  that  paper.  Dane,  if  you  have  a  grain  of  com- 
mon honesty,  — honor  we  don't  expect  from  such  men, 
—  you  will  see  that  I  had  a  right  to  the  time.  And 
this  improvement  is  mine.  You  have  no  business  with 
anything  pertaining  to  it." 

He  overshot  the  mark  widely  that  time.  How  easily 
a  little  passion  leads  a  man  astray  ! 

"Except  what  my  own  brains  give  me." 

"I  say  you  have  wo -right.  Try  one  experiment,  if 
you  dare,  and  I  will  restrain  you  by  an  injunction." 


BY   THE    RIVER.  67 

"  Some  proof  may  be  required  for  your  priority. 
And  some  men" — there  was  a  peculiar  emphasis  on 
this  that  stung  the  master  — "  might  see  a  point  of 
honor  and  right  where  you  did  not." 

Vennai'd's  face  turned  livid  with  rage.  The  man- 
hood in  Stephen  Dane  asserted  itself  proudly.  He 
stood  erect  and  strong. 

"  This  comes  of  familiarity  ; "  and  Vennard  ground  his 
heel  into  the  floor  with  a  savage  force.  "I've  seen  you 
and  Adams  conniving  together,  and  all  I  have  to  tell 
him  is,  that  he  won't  interfere  with  any  more  men  in 
this  place  !  I  want  every  man  to  mind  his  own  busi- 
ness here.  And  if  I  can't  be  master  — " 

"Not  of  souls,  nor  brains." 

"  Brains  !  A  workman  has  no  business  with  'em  ! 
Who  wants  him  to  think  or  to  order?  I  can  do  that. 
All  that  is  required  of  you  is  to  work.  That's  what  I 
hire  you  for.  You've  no  right  to  come  in  here  and 
make  drawings.  It's  just  as  much  robbery  as  if  you 
put  your  hand  in  my  pocket !  " 

A  swarthy  flush  of  passion  crept  over. Stephen  Dane's 
face. 

"A  man  has  a  right  to  his  own  thoughts.  You  dis- 
dain to  hire  his  brains,  I  believe." 

"I  tell  you,  when  he  comes  into  this  place,  he's  mine. 
My  money  buys  every  moment  of  his  time  and.  energy. 
His  thoughts  should  be  on  my  work ;  and  if  they  are 
not,  I  say  he  defrauds  me  —  that  he  is  a  thief." 
5 


68  STEPHEN   DANE. 

The  two  men  glared  at  each  other. 

"  Very  well,"  Dane  said,  slowly.  "  My  time  ended 
this  noon.  An  hour  or  two  extra  I  will  throw  in,  lest 
I  may  have  unwittingly  defrauded  you  some  time. 
Now  we  are  quits.  The  world'  is  wide,  and  there  are 
more  places  in  it  than  Tregony." 

Thomas  Vennard  caught  his  breath  in  utter  amaze- 
ment. He  had  heard  men  bluster  and  swear ;  he  had 
seen  them  cower  in  sullen  rage ;  but  this  one  did 
neither.  Those  fearless  eyes  —  why,  if  he  should  look 
long  enough,  they  might  even  master  him.  And  dis- 
charging himself!  Taking  the  very  words  out  of  his 
mouth  I 

He  opened  his  pocket-book,  and,  snatching  a  bill 
therefrom,  handed  it  to  Stephen  Dane. 

"  There's  your  wages  until  to-night.  Give  me  that 
paper." 

Instead  Dane  handed  him  a  dollar  in  change. 

WI  want  no  more  than  belongs  to  me,"  he  said, 
proudly.  "  I  have  not  robbed  you  of  anything.  There 
is  your  engine  —  you  have  the  means  and  the  time  to 
perfect  it.  Do  it,  if  you  can.  And  if  some  other  man 
is  before  you,  the  law  will  protect  him." 

"Dane,  you  shall  rue  this  to  the  latest  day  of  your 
life.  If  your  improvement  had  been  worth  anything, 
I  might  have  done  something  for  you.  As  it  is,  I  am 
your  enemy."  He  hissed  it  through  his  dull,  purple 
lips.  "You'll  find  out  what  that  means.  No  one  ever 


BY   THE    EIVER.  69 

yet  thwarted  me  who  didn't  smart  for  it.  I  have 
money,  and  that  gives  a  man  a  long  arm.  I  can  reach 
you  in  other  places  than  Tregony.  You'll  see,  blind, 
ignorant  fool  that  you  are  ! " 

Stephen  Dane  gained  a  victory  over  himself  when  he 
made  no  reply.  Recriminations  were  useless,  and  the 
threat  seemed  idle.  He  had  a  morbid  antipathy  to 
brawls  and  quarrels.  He  looked  Mr.  Vennard  steadily 
in  the  eye  a  moment.  That  hard,  narrow,  sordid  face  ! 
Then  he  turned,  and  went  down. 

Not  into  the  large  shop,  but  by  a  worn  side  stairway, 
that  took  him  to  the  very  spot  where  he  had  once  stood 
with  little  Hope  Vennard  in  his  arms  —  where  she  had 
kissed  him.  Would  she  ever  know  the  bitterness  of 
her  father's  tyranny?  If  she  should  love  where  he 
hated !  Ah,  and  a  quick  shiver  passed  over  Stephen. 

He  marched  through  the  yard,  hardly  realizing  the 
events  of  the  last  ten  minutes.  How  strange  the  world 
looked ! 

An  hour  ago  he  was  wild  for  leisure.  Now  there 
was  plenty  of  it.  He  had  nothing  more  to  do  in 
Tregony. 

And  then  he  asked  himself  where  there  was  anything 
for  him  to  do.  Leisure  was  a  rich  man's  luxury,  and 
he — why,  this  ten  dollars  was  about  all  he  had  in  the 
world.  He  had  always  brought  his  money  home,  and 
put  it  in  a  little  tin  box  in  the  cupboard.  Every  one 
went  to  it.  The  household  expenses,  the  clothing,  and 


70  STEPHEN   DANE. 

« 

his  father's  rum,  came  out  of  it.  Frequently  it  was 
all  gone  before  Saturday  night.  For  the  last  month 
or  two,  he  had  meant  to  institute  a  new  system ;  but 
Joe  had  grown  sulky  when  he  undertook  to  explain 
economy. 

"  If  you  know  so  well,  why  don't  you  manage  your- 
self?" she  had  retorted,  crossly.  "May  be  you  think 
I'm  not  honest." 

WO,  no,  Joe!  "  he  had  answered,  with  sudden  pain. 
He  had  a  great,  tender,  womanish  heart,  and  pitied  this 
poor  girl  strangely  now.  And  so  the  subject  had  been 
dropped. 

He  went  out  of  the  Foundery  yard,  as  I  have  said. 
A  magnificent  summer  day,  a  sky  of  royal  beauty,  an 
air  of  fragrance.  Leaving  the  smoke  and  din  behind, 
he  struck  off  for  the  woods,  a  tnile,  perhaps,  below  the 
Foundery.  He  wanted  to  be  all  alone,  to  think,  to 
look  the  problem  straight  in  the  face. 

O,  the  heavenly  rest  and  quiet,  of  those  dense  trees  ! 
O,  the  coolness,  the  tenderness,  with  which  they 
stretched  out  their  long  green  arms.  Soft  mosses 
under  foot,  or  the  path  cushioned  with  the  fallen  leaves 
of  many  autumns,  so  steeped  in  summer  moisture  that 
they  gave  no  rustle  to  the  tread.  Long  wreaths  of  wild 
vines  hanging  from  tree  to  tree  with  clusters  of  pale 
green  berries.  Here  a  gnarled  old  trunk  was  covered 
with  a  glossy-leaved  parasite ;  there  its  gray  bark  was 
moss-grown,  or  fallen  into  phosphorescent  decay.  It 


BY    THE    RIVER.  71 

was  so  still  on  this  day,  broken  occasionally  by  the  song 
of  a  bird,  but  that  not  frequently.  The  place  of  all 
others  for  a  man  to  be  alone  with  God  and  his  own 
soul. 

He  wandered  slowly  through  it  to  a  little  point  that 
jutted  out  into  the  river.  Seating  himself  on  a  rock, 
he  glanced  over  at  the  other  shore.  A  golden  shimmer 
in  the  air  brooded  tenderly  on  the  opposite  hills. 
Vistas  of  light  and  shade,  mown  meadows  like  a  smooth 
sea,  and  clumps  of  trees  stretching  out  indefinitely  until 
they  joined  the  blue  horizon.  The  river  flowing 
placidly  .with  its  murmurous  rustle,  trembling  in  the 
soft  dun  haze,  the  liquid  light  filling  the  midsummer 
air,  lulled  him  into  peaceful  repose.  O,  if  one  could 
be  Nature's  child,  take  root  in  this  soft  mould,  and  grow 
up  into  a  vigorous  tree,  with  no  blights  or  gnarls,  no 
shocks  to  warp  or  stunt.  Drinking  in  summer  dews 
and  showers,  warming  with  baths  of  golden  sunlight, 
spreading  out  green  branches  above,  and  tough,  sinewy 
roots  below,  until  one  came  to  be  a  giant,  and  braved 
any  blast.  No  thought  for  the  morrow.  No  care  for 
to-day.  Yes,  tree  and  shrub,  and  rock  and  river,  knew 
what  it  was  to  live  the  life  God  had  made  for  them. 
Did  they  enjoy  it? 

He  glanced  down  the  shadowy  shore.  Cardinal 
flowers  hung  out  their  scarlet  flags  ;  the  sagittaria  lifted 
its  blue  spire  from  amongst  arrowy  leaves  —  a  knight 
sallying  forth  to  deeds  of  prowess.  Through  the 


72  STEPHEN   DANE. 

shallow  water  at  the  edge  darted  myriads  of  tireless  in- 
sects ;  here  a  soft,  pink  snail  came  creeping  -up  a  wet, 
slimy  stone,  thrusting  out  slender  horns,  and  dragging 
his  cumbrous  house  after  him.  Worms  crept  in  and 
out  of  the  damp  sand,  enjoying  their  sluggish  life  with 
so  pure  a  zest  that  he  almost  envied  them.  God  took 
care  of  them.  There  was  a  God  for  sinless  Nature. 

And  what  for  himself  ?  A  quick,  sharp  pang  struck 
his  heart  again.  There  was  a  fierce  struggle  before 
him  —  how  to  begin? 

First,  he  must  leave  Tregony.  Walk,  work  his  way 
somehow  until  he  came  to  a  new  place,  where -he  could 
dare  toil  again.  But  Joe  and  his  father? 

They  must  be  left  behind  for  the  present.  Perhaps 
for  all  time.  They  could  go  on  quietly  here,  he  pro- 
viding for  them.  And  being  free  to  live  his  own  life 
without  any  drawbacks,  to  think,  to  study,  to  follow 
out  the  ideas  struggling  through  his  brain  with  such 
mighty  throes,  he  might  come  to  some  higher  point  at 
the  last  —  some  clear  sailing. 

Then  he  thought  of  Thomas  Vennard.  Everything 
about  him  turning  to  gold.  A  mean,  grasping,  ava- 
ricious man,  and  yet  prospered  in  everything  he  under- 
took. Did  God  mean  it  to  be  so  ?  Did  He  make  some 
men  lucky,  and  smile  to  see  others  forever  grinding  at 
fortune's  wheel  ?  Did  it  matter  whether  a  man  was  up- 
right, honest,  and  generous?  These  unlucky  men  near- 
ly always  were.  Somewhere  matters  had  gone  wrong, 


BY    THE    RIVER.  73 

but  who  was  mighty  enough  to  right  them?  Who 
could  take  the  power  out  of  these  unjust  hands,  and 
change  selfish  hearts  into  noble  ones? 

If  he  only  had  a  little  money,  — five  hundred  dollars, 
say,  —  he  could  start  fair,  and  turn  his  back  upon  fate. 
Five  hundred  !  A  paltry  sum  to  Vennard,  but  a  for- 
tune for  him.  It  stood  for  all  the  blessings  that  could 
crown  his  life.  Leisure  for  his  hungry  brain,  a  pleasant 
home,  companionship  such  as  he  thirsted  for,  books, 
experiments,  success.  In  this  slow  way,  with  the 
burdens  he  must  carry,  it  would  be  years  before  he 
could  save  it. 

He  took  the  precious  roll  of  drawings  out  of  his 
pocket.  Cylinders,  valves,  rods  —  an  odd  lot  of  dia- 
grams. Adams  had  discovered  genius  in  it.  He  felt 
certain  now  that  he  could  make  it  work.  Give  him  a 
chance  for  his  life,  without  this  cursed  mill-stone  of 
poverty  hanging  forever  to  his  neck,  and  he  would 
make  it  a  fair  thing.  But  this  black  ghost  —  could  he 
never  get  rid  of  it?  What  if  he  began  to  grind  his 
fellow-men — make  them  stepping-stones  to  his  own 
advancement.  Why,  it  was  done  every  day.  And 
then  he  smiled  with  a  sort  of  hard  scorn. 

The  sun,  going  westward,  threw  his  side  of  the 
shore  into  a  dense  shade,  but  made  the  other  a  mass  of 
rosy  gold.  So  lovely  it  appeared,  so  enticing  with  its 
tremulous  glitter,  that  he  forgot  his  care,  the  sharp 
pain  and  hunger  tugging  at  his  heart,  shut  his  eyes, 


74  STEPHEN   DANE. 

and  leaning  back  against  the  mossy  bole  of  a  tree,  gave 
himself  up  to  dreams. 

What  was  it  he  heard  in  a  dim  sort  of  way,  floating 
through  his  brain?  The  cry  of  some  homeward  bird 
calling  to  his  mate?  That  would  not  be  so  sharp  with 
pain.  How  deathly  still  all  the  air  was  in  answer ! 
It  made  him  shiver. 

He  rose  presently,  and  took  a  few  steps  forward. 
Why,  what  was  that?  A  heavy,  sullen  plash  in  the 
water.  Almost  at  his  very  feet,  he  thought  at  first. 
He  clambered  out  on  the  farthest  rock,  and  strained  his 
eyes  around  the  point.  The  shore  was  so  indented 
with  little  nooks,  so  broken  to  vision  by  the  trees 
growing,  in  some  places,  to  the  very  water's  edge,  and 
overhanging  it.  But  he  saw  the  eddies  far  up,  dimpling 
out  towards  the  middle  of  the  river,  and  slowly  floating 
down.  If  God  was  looking  out  of  that  clear  summer 
sky,  what  did  He  see? 

Stephen  Dane  took  his  way  along  the  river's  edge, 
swinging  around  the  trees,  striding  over  the  stones,  and 
occasionally  giving  a  lurch  into  the  water.  Some 
strange  impulse  urged  him  on.  When  he  reached  the 
spot,  the  waves  had  not  yet  subsided  into  quiet.  The 
bank  was  higher  here,  —  a  sort  of  bluif ;  the  river  deeper, 
and  so  shaded  that  he  could  not  see  clearly  to  the 
bottom  —  if  there  had  been  anything  to  see,  which 
there  was  not.  Probably  a  loosened  stone  had  rolled 
down. 


BY   THE    RIVEK.  75 

He  turned  now  to  take  the  shortest  cut  out  of  the 
•woods.  The  trees  were  less  dense,  the  grass  quite 
ra'nk.  It  had  been  freshly  trampled,  and,  O  God ! 
what  was  this?  He  stooped  down  to  examine  the 
sharp  edge  of  a  stone.  A  clot  of  blood,  and  humau 
skin,  a  wisp  of  coarse  brown  hair  matted  in  it ! 

There  are  some  strange  moments  in  life.  Stephen 
Dane,  without  knowing  why  he  did  it,  wrenched  this 
stone  from  its  foundation,  rolled  it  over,  keeping  his 
eyes  away  from  this  terrible  sign  of  crime,  and  gave  it 
a  vigorous  push  into  the  river.  Then  he  fitted  a 
smaller  one  in  its  place,  covering  up  the  spiders, 
worms,  and  lion-ants,  that  were  hurrying  in  every  direc- 
tion. Some  curious  spell  held  him  in  a  giant's  grasp. 
He  glanced  furtively  through  the  trees,  he  took  a 
lingering  survey  of  the  place,  and  then  cautiously 
threaded  his  way  out.  The  shadows  grew  weird  and 
spectral.  He  stepped  lightly,  and  drew  strange,  half- 
repressed  breaths.  Then  he  stumbled  over  the  root  of 
a  tree,  and  kicked  something  that  was  not  a  stone. 
He  passed  it  first,  returned,  groped  about  until  he 
found  it.  A  memorandum  and  note  book  with  dark 
leather  covers.  On  the  first  page  was  written  in  a  stiff, 
but  legible  hand,  "  Thomas  Vennard,  Tregony,  18 — ." 

He  struck  his  forehead  in  a  wild,  startled  way.  lie 
looked  through  the  dim  branches  with  staring  eyeballs, 
transfixed  by  a  horrible  thought  that  seemed  to  cleave 
through  his  brain.  Did  the  lifeless  body  of  Thomas 


76  STEPHEN   DANE. 

Yennard,  the  man  he  had  so  lately  envied,  lie  over 
yonder  in  the  river?  The  cold  sweat  started  at  every 
pore.  His  limbs  trembled  violently.  His  teeth  chat- 
tered. A  faint,  sickening  sensation  stole  over  him. 
He  here  with  the  murdered  man's  property  in  his 
hands !  Some  awful  fascination  compelled  him  to 
clutch  it  tightly,  when  he  would  have  thrown  it  from 
him.  Then  he  staggered  on,  reeling  like  a  drunken 
man. 

A  step  startled  him.  Coming  in  this  direction,  too. 
By  the  straggling  sunlight,  whose  last  beams  gave  an 
orange-red  glow,  he  recognized  the  figure,  the  sham- 
bling gait.  O  Heaven  I  was  his  father's  very  life  put 
into  his  hands ! 


AT  THE  STAKE.  77 


V. 

AT  THE  STAKE. 

» 

"\  "\  THEN  Archy  Dane  met  his  son,  his  thin,  gray 
V  Y  face  grew  deathly  white.  His  knees  smote 
together,  his  hands  fell  limp  and  helpless  by  his  side, 
and  his  lips  twitched  nervously. 

"  Stephen  !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  faint,  sickly  voice, 
more  of  terror  than  surprise.  His  lank  jaws  fell  as  if 
stricken  with  palsy. 

"Were  you  looking  for  me,  father?" 

It  was  a  strange  question,  as  Stephen  himself  knew, 
after  he  had  put  it,  but  it  had  come  first  into  his  mind. 

"  No  —  I  —  "  The  voice  was  broken  with  aguish 
trembling. 

"It's  growing  dark  in  the  woods." 

"  Yes."  No  movement  followed  this.  Only  the  two 
men  breathing  hoarse  and  fearfully. 

"  Joe  will  have  supper  ready  by  the  time  we  reach 
home." 

"  Go  on,  boy,"  he  said  roughly,  albeit  in  a  tremulous 
tone. 


78  STEPHEN    DANE. 

Stephen  Dane  was  shocked  with  the  crime  that  had 
been  so  foully  committed  there  by  the  river's  edge. 
This  man's  hands  were  red  with  blood,  his  soul  black 
with  a  stain,  only  God  could  wipe  off.  His  own  father  I 
Had  he  been  sent  to  save  him  ? 

Perhaps  because  his  own  heart  had  been  so  bitter 
a  while  ago,  he  experienced  a  deep  pity  for  this  poor  old 
man.  Yet  his  lips  must  be  sealed  now  and  forever. 

"Well,"  he  returned,  "don't  wait  out  late." 

Presently  he  looked  back,  and  saw  the  bent  figure 
groping  around  in  the  falling  darkness.  Then  he  only 
heard  a  faint  rustle,  and  could  see  nothing.  But  he 
knew  two  bony  hands  were  hunting  over  the  moss 
and  dead  leaves,  for  something  he  carried  in  his 
pocket. 

He  skulked  along  a  back  lane  nearer  the  river. 
How  lonely  it  was  in  this  amethyst  glow  !  How  the 
long  hills  drooped  with  purple  shadows,  their  outlines 
lost  in  soft  indistinctness  1  Gray  half  lights  upon  the 
bolder  rocks,  faint  touches  of  red  along  the  shore, 
where  filmy  threads  of  vapor  began  to  curl.  The 
hollow  blue  of  the  upper  sky  seemed  a  haven  in  which 
these  fleets  of  gold  might  come  to  anchor  in  an  un- 
troubled sea  of  rest.  Where  was  there  any  rest  for 
him? 

The  bright  reflection  had  entirely  disappeared  behind 
the  hills  when  Stephen  reached  home.  Supper  had 
been  waiting  upon  the  table  a  long  time.  The  johnny- 


AT   THE   STAKE.  79 

cake  stood  back  from  the  fire,  its  crisp,  golden  tint 
degenerated  into  brown.  Joe  was  cross  with  the 
delay. 

"You've  got  to  goin'  off  to  the  tavern  again,"  she 
flung  out  angrily.  "It's  enough  to  try  the  patience 
of  a  saint.  Supper  's  been  waitin'  this  hour." 

"No,  I  haven't  been  to  the  tavern." 

The  hollow  voice  startled  her.  She  looked  intently 
at  Stephen.  He  felt  that  his  face  was  fearfully 
haggard. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?     And  where's  father  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?     We  won't  wait  for  him." 

"  The  johnny-cake  was  so  nice !  It's  a'most  baked 
to  death  now  ;  "  and  Joe's  voice  was  rather  conciliatory. 

"No  matter." 
'    "  One  of  those  meetin's  again,  Stephen  ?  " 

«  No  "  —  absently. 

"  They're  goin'  to  cut  the  timber  off  the  P'int,  and 
build  a  new  mill." 

"  They  ?  Who  ?  "  Stephen  started  as  if  struck  by  an 
unseen  hand. 

"  Company,  I  b'lieve.  Jake  Fawcett's  wife  told  me. 
They  want  Mr.  Vennard  to  go  look  at  it  first.  Cu'ris 
that  nothin'  can't  be  done  a'thout  he  has  a  finger  in 
the  pie." 

Stephen  was  too  much  excited  to  notice  Joe's  elisions. 
He  choked  down  a  mouthful  of  the  johnny-cake.  For 
all  taste  it  had  to  him,  it  might  as  well  have  been 


80  STEPHEN  DANE. 

compounded  of  chaff.  This  errand  was  what  had  called 
Mr.  Vennard  to  that  fatal  spot.  But  his  father  — 
How  solve  the  mystery? 

"You're  stupid  to-night,  Stephen,"  Joe  said,  angrily. 
"  One  might  as  well  talk  to  a  stick." 

"  Am  I  ?  "  His  voice  had  a  dreary  patience  in  it,  as 
if  he  had  begun  to  wait  for  something  that  would  never 
come.  He  sipped  his  tea  with  long  breaths  between. 
When  Joe  was  not  looking  he  flung  portions  of  his 
supper  to  the  wistful-eyed  dog.  Presently  he  rose. 

"  I  do  wish  father  'd  come.     Goin'  out  again  ?  " 

"No." 

Then  Joe,  having  failed  in  all  her  efforts  at  conversa- 
tion, lapsed  into  sullen  silence.  Stephen  seated  himself 
on  the  window-ledge,  and  looked  down  the  lane. 

Nothing  came  of  his  watching.  Gray  night  closed 
them  in.  One  by  one  the  stars  were  set  in  pale, 
penetrable  wreaths  of  fleecy  clouds.  The  surge  of  the 
river  floated  upon  the  night  air,  bringing  wafts  of  dewy 
fragrance.  Joe  went  out  to  gossip  with  a  neighbor. 
In  that  strange,  still  night,  Stephen's  thoughts  whirled 
in  wildest  chaos.  It  was  his  misery  that  nothing  could 
be  done.  No  plans  laid.  No  precautions  taken.  Some 
times  he  resolved  to  go  away  without  any  explanation, 
but  he  shivered  at  the  suspicion  it  might  arouse.  Had 
any  one  heard  the  words  that  had  passed  between  him 
and  Mr.  Vennard?  There  was  a  long  afternoon 
to  account  for.  And  here  in  his  pocket  was  the 


AT  THE   STAKE.  81 

memorandum-book.  What  must  he  do  with  that  ?  If 
found  in  this  house,  father  or  son  must  answer  for  the 
deed. 

He  lighted  a  candle,  and  went  up  to  his  room,  fas- 
tening the  door  behind  him.  Then  he  drew  forth  the 
book  and  opened  it.  Full  of  daily  jottings  in  pencil, 
one  or  two  receipts,  a  plan  for  boiler  and  steam-chest, 
and  some  bank  bills,  laid  out  straight,  with  a  crisp, 
fresh  look,  although  not  new.  Six  fifties  and  ten 
twenties  —  five  hundred  dollars  ! 

This  was  what  had  tempted  his  old  father.  This 
was  what  he  had  gone  back  to  search  for.  A  few 
hours  agone  Stephen  had  been  wishing  for  just  this. 
It  would  give  him  the  means  to  perfect  his  engine,  start 
him  on  the  road  to  fortune.  Ah,  if  it  were  only  his, 
with  no  stain  of  blood  upon  it  1 

He  put  the  money  back,  and  shut  the  book.  What 
should  he  do  with  it?  hold  it  there  in  the  flame  until 
it  was  all  consumed?  Or,  better  still,  take  it  down 
stairs  and  lay  it  upon  the  coals  ?  Destroy  this  sure  and 
fatal  evidence. 

But  the  money  ? 

He  had  not  robbed;  he  had  not — but  a  shiver 
choked  off  the  words.  Still,  why  should  the  money  be 
wasted  ?  More  than  this  had  Thomas  Vennard  wrung 
out  of  his  workmen.  Mrs.  Vennard  and  the  child 
would  have  an'  abundance.  Little  sunny-haired  Hope  ! 

Yes,  it  would  do  so  much  for  him ;  give  him  the 


82  STEPHEN   DANE. 

knowledge  for  which  he  was  madly  thirsting ;  save  them 
all,  perhaps ;  take  them  out  of  this  homblc,  grovelling 
life.  It  had  come  to  him  by  one  of  those  blind  chances 
of  fate.  Was  it  best  to  destroy  it  ? 

He  stood  there  a  long  while,  with  a  devil  at  his  el- 
bow. To  send  it  back  in  any  manner  would  be  certain 
detection.  Was  he  not  answerable  for  his  father's  life? 
No,  it  could  not  be  returned. 

His  tall  figure  swayed  to  and  fro  in  the  intense  ex- 
citement ;  his  knees  smote  weakly  together ;  his  fingers 
trembled  and  clutched  at  each  other,  as  if  for  support. 
His  eyes  stared  wildly  about,  and  he  stood  there  mo- 
ment after  moment,  scarcely  breathing. 

Joe's  step  sounded  on  the  threshold.  He  darted 
one  quick  glance  around.  There  was  a  chink  in  the 
chimney,  by  the  rafter.  He  thrust  it  in,  muttering, 
"  For  to-night  only." 

He  opened  the  door,  and  went  stumbling  down  stairs, 
candle  in  hand,  but  keeping  his  face  averted  from  Joe. 
Everything  about  him  seemed  so  unreal !  This  yellow 
flicker  of  light ;  that  ghostly  pine  table,  to-day  sand- 
scrubbed  to  new  whiteness  by  Joe  ;  the  blank  space  of 
the  doorway,  and  the  shadowy  windows.  A  kind  of 
dazed,  dreamy  terror  was  stealing  over  him,  a  terror 
that  stupefied.  He  walked  in  obedience  to  some  me- 
chanical law,  not  because  he  willed.  He  seemed  to 
have  no  sentience,  to  be  a  sort  of  breathing  machine, 
guided  by  blind  instinct. 


AT   THE    STAKE.  83 

"Are  you  sick,  Stephen?"      ^    . 

Joe's  tone  had  in  it  a  thread  of  "curious  awe. 

"No.     I  believe  I'll  go  and  look  after  father," 

He  reached  down  his  old  hat,  and  walked  slowly  to 
the  end  of  the  lane.  He  fancied  that  he  must  be  losing 
his  reason,  so  slowly  did  every  thought  come,  and  with 
such  a  great  effort .  What  was  lying  in  the  depths  of 
the  river?  A  stone,  with  a  clot  of  human  flesh  and 
blood.  Anything  else  ?  Would  it  float  up  to  the  sur- 
face some  day,  and  tell  its  own  hideous  tale?  Would 
there  be  any  marks,  fingers  at  the  throat,  or  a  grip  that 
might  disprove  accident? 

And  what  had  Archy  Dane  betrayed  over  his  cups  ? 
He  was  not  greatly  given  to  being  close-mouthed.  No 
steps  coming  along  the  road.  The  town  clocks  rang  out 
ten  on  the  balmy  summer  air.  In  this  deathly  stillness 
Stephen  could  hear  his  heart  beat.  What  was  this  un- 
utterable glory  of  earth  and  sky  to  him?  In  a  mood 
of  feeble  passion  he  wondered  why  he  had  been  created  ! 
What  was  life,  even  after  the  threescore  and  ten  years 
had  been  reached  ?  And  yet  he  felt  a  power  growing 
up  in  his  heart  with  great  giant  strides.  It  was  not  all 
dull  clay.  A  fierce  power  struggling  for  utterance. 
Somewhere  a  spark  like  a  diamond,  that,  held  in  cer- 
tain lights,  shot  out  arrowy,  golden  rays.  Was  that  a 
man's  soul?  Would  he  ever  come  to  full  stature,  then? 
He  had  seen  theoi'ies  applied  to  cold,  inanimate  iron 
that  warmed  it  into  life,  gave  it  a  vitality,  so  to 
6 


84  STEPHEN   DANE. 

speak,  that  astonished  the  world.  All  this  money  might 
have  done  for  him. 

And  then  he  thought  of  the  blear-eyed  man  down  at 
the  tavern.  He  could  not  go  there  to-night.  If,  in  a 
weak,  unconscious  moment,  Archy  Dane  had  loosened 
his  hold  on  the  slippery  neck  of  his  secret,  and  trusted 
it  to  the  gaping,  gossiping  crew,  what  then? 

The  moments  lengthened  out  intolerably.  The  chirp 
of  insects  in  the  neighboring-  thicket  grew  faint  and 
drowsy.  The  stars  overhead  sailed  through  fleecy 
drifts,  sometimes  half  obscured.  In  spite  of  midsum- 
mer warmth,  he  felt  chilled  to  the  very  marrow. 

A  shuffling,  irregular  step.  He  heard  it  when  a  long 
way  off,  and  went  out  to  meet  his  father. 

"Keep  away ! "  the  thick,  guttural  voice  blurted,  ac- 
companying it  with  a  feeble  brandishing  of  the  arms. 

"It  is  I  —  Stephen." 

"O,  Stephen."  The  tone  became  one  of  whining 
terror.  "  Doggin'  your  poor  old  father  around  !  " 

The  young  man  caught  him  by  the  shoulder,  almost 
fiercely. 

"  What  have  you  been  talking  about  down  at  the 
tavern  ?  " 

w  Nothin',  Stephen.    I  ain't  told  nothin' "  —  piteously. 

A  strange  emotion  sped  along  Stephen's  veins.  He 
drew  the  shaky  arm  within  his  own.  In  spite  of  all, 
there  was  a  bond  between  them,  subtile  and  strong ;  a 
tie  of  blood  that  could  not  be  easily  rent  asunder.  This 


AT   THE    STAKE.  85 

life  was  his  to  save,  or  to  destroy.  Did  justice  ask  it 
at  his  hands  ?  What  reparation  could  the  utmost  of 
this  feeble  soul  and  body  make  ?  A  solemn  tenderness 
came  over  him,  a  weak,  womanish  shrinking.  If  God 
managed  these  things  in  His  own  way,  if  He  brought 
every  evil  deed  to  light  some  time,  why  not  wait  until 
that  day  came,  and  not  vex  himself  with  vain  ques- 
tions ? 

He  held  up  the  trembling  figure ;  he  even  seemed  to 
put  new  life  in  the  straggling  limbs  by  his  own  firm 
step.  But  he  did  not  dare  trust  himself  with  a  reply. 
He  wanted  to  hear  no  confession.  So  they  walked  up 
to  the  cottage  door,  when  the  old  man  lagged  back,  and 
appeared  unwilling  to  enter. 

"  It's  late,"  Stephen  said,  "  and  you  are  tired,  father." 

Joe  sprang  up  from  the  settle,  where  she  had  fallen 
asleep,  rubbed  her  eyes,  and  snuffed  the  candle. 

Stephen  lighted  another,  and  took  it  into  his  father's 
room,  the  old  man  following.  And  all  the  while  he  was 
helping  him  to  bed,  he  never  glanced  into  his  face.  Then 
he  went  up  stairs,  but  not  to  sleep.  All  night  the  man's 
soul  travailed  in  strong  agony,  though  his  lips  were  dry 
and  dumb,  and  could  utter  no  moan.  He  did  not  even 
pray  to  be  delivered  from  any  danger,  but  just  endured, 
with  a  sort  of  sullen  hardihood.  At  morning's  dawn 
he  sat  there  on  the  window  sill,  his  brow  pressed  against 
the  glass,  his  eyes  strained  far  over  the  river,  but  seeing 
nothing  in  the  gray  distance.  No  promise,  no  hope. 


86  STEPHEN   DANE. 

When  Joe  had  breakfast  ready,  he  forced  himself  to 
eat.  His  father  was  sleeping  soundly  in  the  adjoining 
room.  It  came  to  Joe,  although  she  was  not  very 
keen-sighted,  that  never  in  her  whole  life  had  she  seen 
Stephen's  face  wear  such  an  expression.  It  chilled  her 
into  silence.  Only  when  he  rose  and  took  down  his  hat, 
from  force  of  habit,  she  said,  — 

"I  want  some  flour,  Stephen.  I  forgot  it  yesterday. 
You'll  have  time  to  stop  before  you  go  to  work,  and 
some  one's  always  there." 

"  I  wasn't  going  to  the  Foundery,"  he  answered, 
slowly.  "  Did  you  want  a  barrel  ?  " 

"Yes."  Then  curiosity  mastered  her.  "What's  up, 
Stephen?" 

He  felt  that  it  must  come.  Perhaps,  indeed,  before 
night  he  would  be  in  jail,  and  the  terrible  story  in  every 
one's  mouth. 

"  I  was  discharged  yesterday." 

"  What  for  ?     What  you  goin'  to  do  ?  " 

"I  don't  know "-^ in  a  vague,  absent  tone. 

"  You  can't  go  back  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Tfcat  hateful  old  Vennard !  He'll  keep  on  till  he 
drives  every  man  to  ruin.  I  wish  he  —  " 

"  Hush,  Joe."  He  said  it  with  white,  quivering  lips. 
Then  he  turned  away. 

Joe  left  the  table  as  it  was,  made  her  own  bed,  and 
tidied  her  room,  and,  hearing  no  stir  on  her  uncle's 


AT   THE   STAKE.  87 

part,  went  to  Stephen's.  His  bed  in  perfect  order  I 
what  did  it  mean  ?  How  strange  Stephen  was  !  Some- 
thing on  his  mind  always.  Looking  out  of  the  window, 
she  drummed  idly  on  the  sash,  and  speculated.  Stephen 
had  never  been  the  same  since  he  took  to  following  John 
Gilbert  about.  And  this  Adams  —  What  had  occurred 
at  the  Foundery?  In  a  blind  way  she  espoused  Ste- 
phen's side,  whatever  the  trouble  might  be. 

She  turned,  at  length,  and  took  up  her  broom.  The 
chimney  ran  up  close  by  the  window,  and  a  long,  hang- 
ing dust-web  caught  her  eye.  Sweeping  it  slowly 
down,  she  espied  a  book  lodged  there  in  the  crevice. 
The  space  was  too  narrow  for  fingers.  Joe  glanced 
around,  then  broke  a  twig  of  woodbine  just  outside, 
stripped  off  the  leaves,  and  used  it  for  a  lever.  The 
book  fell  into  the  other  hand  she  was  holding  for  sup- 
port, and  some  papers  fluttered  out.  Bank  bills  !  For 
some  seconds  she  was  motionless  with  surprise. 

Josephine  Dane  had  none  of  that  nice  honor  and  del- 
icate self-respect  born  in  some  women.  She  felt  that 
of  late  Stephen  had  rather  defrauded  her  in  the  matter 
of  confidence ;  and  if  she  could  learn  anything  in  this 
way,  she  had  no  scruples  to  hold  her  back.  So  she 
turned  the  leaves  slowly. 

Thomas  Vennard's  property. 

Then  she  counted  the  money,  and  replaced  it.  Five 
hundred  dollars. 

She  stared  around  in  a  blank,  puzzled  manner.    How 


88  STEPHEN  DANE. 

did  Stephen  come  by  this  ?  Hidden  away,  too  !  Was 
he  a  thief?  But  her  cheek  burned  indignantly  at  the 
thought.  Did  he  mean  to  take  it  back?  Had  it  any- 
thing to  do  with  his  being  discharged  ?  Joe's  brain  was 
in  a  sad  whirl. 

If  the  money  was  only  theirs  !  Why,  she  had  never 
seen  half  so  much  together.  They  could  build  the  new 
room  Stephen  had  been  talking  about ;  they  could  have 
carpet  and  chairs  ;  and  may  be  he  would  give  her  a  silk 
dress.  But  then  it  ought  to  be  a  wedding  dress  ;  and 
here  Joe  sighed. 

She  concluded  at  last  that  he  would  surely  return  it. 
Perhaps  he  was  waiting  for  Mr.  Vennard  to  offer  a  re- 
ward. That  was  right  enough.  How  odd  that  he  should 
have  put  it  just  there,  and  she  should  have  seen  it !  If 
she  dared  tease  him  a  little  ! 

She  dropped  it  back  into  its  hiding-place,  and  swept 
the  room.  Then,  hearing  her  uncle  stumbling  about, 
she  ran  down,  with  a  most  innocent  face. 

Archy  Dane  had  reached  the  settle.  His  blood-shot 
eyes  were  staring  around,  with  an  eager,  frightened 
look.  His  face,  was  dismally  gray,  the  lips  pinched 
and  colorless. 

"  He's  had  a  buster  this  time,"  thought  Joe ;  but  she 
said  aloud,  "Will  you  have  some  breakfast ?" 

"Where's  Stephen?" — feebly  and  piteously. 

"  Why,  it's  after  seven  ;  "  and  Joe  forced  a  short,  dis- 
cordant laugh.  Was  the  world  being  turned  upside  down  ? 


AT   THE    STAKE.  89 

"  Stephen's  a  good  boy.  He  allers  was.  He  won't 
stan'  by  and  see  his  old  father  'bused.  Is  the  Fotmdery 
open,  Joe?" 

"  Lord  !  Why  should  the  Foundery  be  shut  up  ? 
You're  half  fuddled." 

He  looked  up  at  her,  his  eyes  glazing  over  with  dull 
terror. 

"I  don't  want  any  breakfast,  Joe  "  —  staggering  up. 
"Take  me  back  to  bed.  And  if  anybody  comes,  send 
for  Stephen.  He'll  stan'  by  me.  He's  a  good  boy 
—  Stephen.  He's  all  I've  got ; "  and  the  old  man 
maundered  on,  while  Joe  cleared  away  the  dishes,  her 
usually  torpid  brain  roused  to  new  activity. 

Meanwhile  Stephen  Dane  had  gone  down  the  street, 
in  a  slow,  irresolute  manner,  peering  cautiously  into  the 
faces  of  those  he  passed,  as  he  gave  his  familiar,  half- 
abstracted  nod.  Arrived  at  the  flouring-mill,  he  went 
in  ami  did  his  errand.  As  he  took  out  his  money  he 
thought  of  the  hundreds  at  home  with  a  bright  red 
mark  upon  them.  This  was  honestly  earned  and  free 
from  stain.  He  fingered  it  with  a  little  manly  pride  ; 
but  as  he  recalled  the  bitter  sneers  that  had  come  with 
it,  his  brow  grew  fiercely  hot. 

He  lingered  until  the  Foundery  bell  rang.  Some  one 
said,  — 

"  Taking  a  holiday,  Dane  ?  " 

He  gave  a  sickly  smile,  but  had  not  the  courage  to 
own  the  truth.  Had  no  one  heard  ? 


90  STEPHEN   DANE. 

Two  men  halted,  seeing  him  standing  in  the  door. 
One  was  Forbes. 

"Dane,"  he  asked,  "what's  the  row  down  yonder? 
Doesn't  any  one  know  where  Vennard  is  ?  He's  plaguy 
close-mouthed  ;  but  he  wouldn't  go  off  without  a  word 
to  any  one  —  would  he  ?  " 

Stephen  Dane  made  a  great  effort.  "  Gone  off 
where?"  he  asked,  incredulously. 

"Why,  man,  haven't  you  heard?  haven't  you  been 
down  to  the  Foundery  ?  " 

"No." 

"They're  all  up  in  arms.  Mrs.  Vennard  sent  over 
—  he  wasn't  home  last  night  —  didn't  leave  any  mes- 
sage. No  one  can  tell  anything  about  him.  Fact.  You 
needn't  look  as  if  you  didn't  believe  a  fellow  !  " 

"He  might  have  had  business,"  said  Dane,  speaking 
over  a  great  lump  in  his  throat. 

"  He'd  a'  told  time-keeper,  any  how.  And  it's  mighty 
odd.  There's  no  love  lost  atween  Vennard  and  some 
o'  the  men." 

"  You  don't  mean  —  "  and  Mr.  Bross  paused  amid  the 
bags  he  was  lifting. 

"  I  don't  mean  anything  special,"  said  Forbes.  "  Only, 
if  an  accident  had  happened  to  him,  I  know  a  few  who 
wouldn't  make  their  black  very  expensive.  He's  a  mean 
old  niggard.  It  was  a  sorry  day  for  Trcgony  when  he 
came  into  it.  And  I'll  bless  the  Lord  for  the  day  he  goes 


AT  THE   STAKE.  91 

out  o'  it.  I  don't  see  why  God  lets  such  men  live  and 
prosper." 

Forbes  was  growing  excited.  Stephen  Dane  shiv- 
ered. 

"Wasn't  he  home  last  night?"  asked  Mr.  Bross. 

"No.  And  it  ain't  just  his  style  to  go  off  without  a 
word.  It  looks  queer." 

Dane  could  not  endure  the  talk ;  so  he  stepped  out. 
The  glare  of  the  sunlight  in  the  street  blinded  him. 
How  strange  this  glowing  wealth  of  summer  appeared, 
when  human  souls  were  hourly  dying  and  leaving 
it  all !  Then  his  mind  wandered  to  the  secluded  spot 
in  the  river,  where  some  one  lay  sleeping  never  to 
waken  again. 

Some  inexplicable  whim  dragged  him  to  the  Foun- 
dery.  His  breath  came  hard  and  short ;  every  nerve 
in  his  body  seemed  bare  and  exposed  to  a  biting  blast. 
The  fearful  expectation  of  something  kept  his  senses 
alert  and  keen,  yet  his  outward  self  was  'as  rigid  as  if 
slowly  turning  to  stone. 

No  gate-keeper  peering  suspiciously  out  at  the  en- 
trance. A  knot  of  men  in  the  office  —  groups  else- 
where, talking  and  gesticulating,  their  faces  full  of 
dumb  wonder.  What  if  he  went  to  his  place  and 
worked  as  usual?  A  whole  day's  idleness  would  drive 
him  crazy.  He  paused  in  the  wide  doorway. 

"Pretty  work  this,  Dane  !"  ejaculated  a  gruff  fore- 
man. "Everybody's  about  cracked,  I  think.  As  if 


92  STEPHEN  DANE. 

Vennard  didn't  know  his  own  business  !  There'll  be  a 
nice  breeze  when  he  comes  back.  What  you  gaping 
there  for  ?  You  was  off  all  yesterday  afternoon.  Go 
to  work." 

Then  the  man  did  not  know  he  had  been  discharged. 
He  hung  up  his  hat  and  coat,  tied  on  his  leathern  apron, 
and  went  to  work  with  a  resolute  will.  Yet  his  mind 
was  full  of  busy  thoughts  —  an  island  floating  in  a  dim 
sea  of  space,  with  no  sure  rock  for  foundation. 

By  noon  the  excitement  had  increased.  About  four 
on  the  preceding  afternoon  Mr.  Vennard  had  been  seen 
to  leave  the  Foundery.  He  had  gone  to  the  office  of 
Slocum  &  Adsley,  to  discuss  the  new  mill,  and  had 
promised  to  view  the  site,  and  give  his  opinion  of  it. 
No  one  had  seen  him  since.  The  place  had  been 
searched,  but  not  a  vestige  discovered.  Inquiries  had 
been  made  everywhere.  Mr.  Ellicott  had  telegraphed 
to  several  business  friends  in  the  city.  The  town  au- 
thorities had  even  taken  up  the  matter.  He  surely  was 
not  in  Tregony. 

Stephen  Dane  drew  a  long  breath  of 'relief.  The 
place  had  been  searched,  then  !  What  had  led  him  to 
destroy  that  sure  evidence,  that  inanimate  tongue  whose 
wordless  story  would  have  been  certain  proof?  A 
strange  awe  fell  upon  him.  What  if  God  meant  to 
save  him?  For  now  he  must  believe  in  something 
higher  and  stronger  than  mere  blind  chance. 

No   one  remarked  his  silence.      He  took  his  way 


AT   THE    STAKE.  93 

through  the  groups  unnoticed.  He  was  glad  to  have 
Adams  still  absent ;  for  friendly  eyes  are  often  keen. 

What  of  his  father  through  all  this  long  morning? 
He  almost  dreaded  to  enter  the  house. 

An  expression  in  Joe's  face  startled  him.  Those 
slow-moving  brown  eyes  were  quickened  with  a  sense 
of  fear  or  suspicion.  He  turned  pale  through  all  the 
grime  and  heat. 

"Where  have  you  been  all  the  morning?"  she  asked, 
excitedly. 

"  To  work." 

"Why,  they  say  Mr.  Vennard  is  — that  he  has  —  no 
one  can  find  him.  Is  it  so,  Stephen?" 

Her  voice  sank  to  a  terrified  whisper. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  exclaimed,  roughly,  more 
to  regain  his  own  self-possession  than  to  startle  her. 
"  Can't  a  man  go  off  if  he  likes  ?  Where's  father  ?  " 

"  He's  sick,  and  wouldn't  eat  any  breakfast,"  Joe  said, 
sulkily. 

«  What  is  it  —  fever  ?     Does  he  talk  ?  " 

Stephen  was  washing  his  face  and  hands  and  wiping 
them  on  the  coarse  towel.  Did  this  girl  know  or  sus- 
pect? Had  she  penetrated  the  poor  old  man's  secret? 

"Mutters  to  himself — that's  all.  Guess  he  was 
pretty  drunk  last  night." 

Stephen  winced,  but  went  straight  to  the  bedroom. 
His  father  moved  uneasily,  and  drew  the  soiled  counter- 
pane over  his  head. 


94  STEPHEN  DANE. 

"  You're  sick,  father."  The  tone  was  tender  and  re- 
assuring. 

"Yes,  Stephen,  sick,"  was  the  quavering  reply. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"Nothin',  Stephen,  nothin'.  I'm  gettin'  to  be  a 
feeble  old  man.  Le'  me  lay  here  and  rest." 

All  this  time  he  had  not  once  turned  his  eyes  towards 
his  son. 

"I  think  rest  will  be  the  best  medicine,"  was  the 
decisive  answer*  "  After  a  few  days'  quiet  you  will 
come  around  all  right  again ; "  and  Stephen  gave  the 
withered  hand  a  pressure  that  said  so  much.  It  com- 
forted the  poor  soul  suffering  all  the  remorse  and  agony 
possible  for  such  a  nature.  If  Stephen  suspected  his 
secret,  it  was  in  safe  keeping. 

"Have  you  been  to  work,  Stephen?"  Joe  asked,  as 
he  seated  himself  at  the  table. 

"  Yes.  I  went  down  there,  and  Bartow  told  me  to 
go  to  work.  Vennard  hasn't  been  in  all  the  morning. 
There's  a  precious  row  about  him." 

"And   Mrs.    Vennard   is   taking    on   like    a  crazy 
woman  !     Sally  Fawcett  says  she'll  bet  anything  that  — 
that  —  " 
"  That  what?  "    Stephen  stirred  his  coffee  impatiently. 

"  That  he's  been  murdered  ! "  Joe's  tone  dropped  to 
a  whisper,  and  she  glanced  around  fearfully. 

"  Well,"  Stephen  replied,  slowly,  "  Vennard  has 
made  some  bitter  enemies  j  but  a  man  must  hate  another 


AT   THE    STAKE.  95 

pretty  fiercely  to  murder  him  in  cold  blood.  Hard 
blows  are  sometimes  given  in  a  quarrel,  but  they  can't 
prove  that  against  any  one.  Slocum  was  the  last  man 
who  saw  him." 

"  They've  been  searching  —  haven't  they  ?  Down  by 
theP'int?" 

"Yes.  They  fancied  he  might  have  gone  to  view 
the  new  mill-site.  And  they  are  sending  everywhere." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Stephen?" 

Joe  dared  not  raise  her  eyes  from  her  plate. 

"I  don't  want  to  think  just  now.  It  looks  very 
mysterious;  but  Vennard  was. a  close  man,  not  much 
given  to  telling  his  plans.  If  he  should  come  back  this 
afternoon  —  " 

"  If  he  shouldn't  —  what  then  ?  " 

"  I  should  begin  to  suspect  foul  play.  Saturday  is  an 
important  day  for  him." 

Stephen's  tones  were  calm  and  measured.  Some- 
how he  began  to  distrust  Joe,  and  thought  it  best  to 
allay  any  vague  suspicious. 

" Stephen,"  the  old  man  called  as  he  rose.  "What's 
come  o'  Mr.  Vennard  ?  "  The  eyes  seemed  starting  out 
of  their  deep  sockets. 

"  No  one  knows."  Stephen  cleared  his  throat,  and 
told  the  story,  the  surmises,  and  the  search. 

"  Didn't — they — find — nothin'  ?  "  Each  word  came 
with  a  gasp. 

"Not  a  fragment.     Not  a  trace »" 


96  STEPHEN  DANE. 

"Wouldn't  they  hunt  everywhere?  Wouldn't  they 
turn  an'  twist,  an'  drag  an?  scour?  He's  a  great  man, 
Stephen.  Folks  '11  do  a  sight  for  rich  'uns.  And  may 
be  some  one  '11  be  took  up  for  his  murder." 

How  the  watery  eyes  glared  on  Stephen  !  The  thin 
hand  clutched  his  arm,  and  the  gaunt  figure  partially 
raised  itself. 

Stephen  laid  him  gently  back  on  the  pillow. 

"You  must  not  excite  yourself  so.  It  will  be  time 
enough  to  talk  of  that  when  they  find  the  body.  Will 
you  promise  to  lie  still  here,  and  try  to  sleep?  You're 
weak  and  tired.  I'll  come  back  early." 

"  Yes,  I'll  be  still."     He  said  it  in  a  fearful  whisper. 

Stephen  had  one  more  errand.  He  went  to  his  room, 
and  peered  into  the  chink  of  the  chimney.  There  was 
the  book.  With  his  knife  he  slipped  it  out.  It  needed 
a  secure  hiding-place.  For  it  might  happen  that  the 
real  agent  in  this  terrible  drama  would  escape  scot 
free.  God  held  them  all  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand. 
He  had  a  right  to  take  every  precaution. 

He  carried  the  book  out  with  him.  Loitering  around 
with  an  observant  eye,  he  discovered  a  broken  place  at 
the  root  of  the  woodbine.  The  old  house  was  falling 
into  ruin.  He  pushed  in  the  book,  and  patched  up 
the  place  with  a  stone,  dragging  the  clustering  vines 
over  it. 

When  he  was  out  of  sight,  Joe  ran  up  to  his  chamber. 
The  chink  had  been  despoiled.  What  had  Stephen 


AT   THE    STAKE.  97 

Dane  to  do  with  the  disappearance  of  Thomas  Vennarcl  ? 
She  shivered  with  dread  of  the  awful  secret  that  had 
come  into  her  possession.  If  Stephen  —  but  no,  she 
would  not  believe  it. 

It  was  a  strange  afternoon  in  Tregony  —  a  strange 
day,  indeed.  A  shudder  pervaded  the  very  atmosphere. 
Voices  dropped  together  in  a  lower  key,  and  eyes 
glanced  into  each  other  with  vague  questioning.  Every* 
man  felt  the  subtile  influence  amid  the  din  and  smoke. 
As  if  the  eye  that  had  watched  them  so  vigilantly  would 
watch  them  no  more.  As  if  the  solid,  iron-like  figure, 
peering  here  and  there,  haunting  every  place  with  a 
sort  of  ubiquity,  would  never  ferret  out  any  more  delin- 
quencies. 

There  were  moments  when  Stephen  Dane  waited 
breathlessly  for  some  one  to  accuse  him.  How  strange 
that  no  one  knew  of  his  discharge  —  of  the  altercation 
between  him  and  Mr.  Vennard  !  No  one  asked  where 
he  had  been  the  preceding  afternoon.  No  one  had 
missed  him,  perhaps.  One  of  those  odd  circumstances 
in  which  there  seems  a  peculiar  fate  —  or  shall  we  call 
it  by  its  right  name  ?  —  Providence  ! 

The  day  ended  at  last.  He  found  his  father  weaker, 
and  evidently  wandering  in  his  mind.  He  could  not 
help  thinking  death  would  be  the  best  end  for  this 
tragedy.  It  would  take  the  stain  of  one  foul  deed  out 
of  the  world,  and  leave  only  a  pitiful  remembrance  of 
the  man  he  had  called  father.  Father  !  Faugh  !  Did 


98  STEPHEN   DANE. 

any  such  sluggish  and  corrupt  blood  flow  through  his 
veins  ? 

But  if  he  died  here  without  any  assistance,  such 
as  he  might  justly  claim,  would  Stephen  be  entirely 
guiltless  ?  Would  not  wishing  him  out  of  the  way,  and 
raising  no  hand  to  keep  the  feeble  flame  alive,  amount 
in  another  way  to  murder  ?  Because  he  could  see  how 
much  better  it  would  be  for  the  grave  to  close  over  this 
secret,  he  knew  it  was  his  duty  to  bide  God's  time. 
Did  God  have  anything  to  do  with  such  poor  miserable 
souls? 

He  was  tender  as  a  woman,  this  great,  brawny  man. 
He  went  to  the  doctor's,  and  afterwards  sat  up  far  into 
the  summer  night,  administering  medicines  and  bath- 
ing the  burning  hands  and  face  with  cool  spring  water ; 
smoothing  back  the  straggling  hair,  and  arranging  the 
tumbled  pillows.  Now  and  then  the  quivering  lips 
moved,  or  the  vacant  eyes  gave  a  questioning  stare ; 
but  the  secret  that  lay  between  father  and  child  was 
never  touched  upon.  I  think  the  old  man  accepted,  in 
a  sort  of  blind  way,  his  safety,  and  was  content  to  be 
taken  into  the  keeping  of  his  strong  and  patient  son. 


SAVED.  99 


VI, 


SAVED. 

THE  next  day  was  Sunday.  Stephen  was  intensely 
thankful.  The  quiet,  the  soft  chiming  of  church 
bells,  the  long  day  with  no  surmises  and  excitements. 
Adams  came  in  the  afternoon,  but  ascribed  Stephen's 
abstracted  air  to  his  night's  watching  and  care  for  his 
father. 

Archy  Dane  fell  into  a  stupor.  A  sort  of  torpid  life 
that  was  not  conscious  of  any  physical  want,  only  an 
intense  mental  hungering  after  his  son.  That  was  told 
more  by  beseeching  glances,  than  words.  Even  Joe 
became  aware  of  a  new  bond  between  them. 

She  kept  her  own  counsel.  One  mighty  feeling 
swayed  her — love  for  Stephen.  She  was  weak, 
curious,  and  given  to  gossiping;  but  in  this  matter 
not  all  the  tortures  of  the  Inquisition  could  have 
extorted  one  surmise  from  her. 

On  Monday  the  world  took  up  its  old  routine.  Each 
day  suspicion  of  murder  became  stronger.  The  woods 
7 


100  STEPHEN   DAJSTE. 

were  searched  anew,  the  river  dragged  at  the  Point. 
No  success. 

Five  days  afterwards  some  children  went  to  the 
lower  part  of  the  town  to  gather  huckleberries,  that 
were  just  ripening.  An  area  of  several  acres  of  timber 
had  been  cleared  and  burned  over,  and  the  bushes,  with 
their  usual  tendency,  had  covered  the  spot.  The  river 
made  a  decided  circuit  here ;  the  shore  was  shallow,  and 
bordered  by  low-growing  swamp  cedars. 

One  adventurous  youth  sallied  out  to  explore  the  place 
and  gather  some  attractive  wild  flowers.  Wading  over 
the  moss-grown  stones,  peering,  into  shaded  coves,  and 
startling  the  little  fishes  from  their  repose,  he  at  last 
came  upon  a  sight  that  filled  him  with  wildest  terror. 
One  shriek  of  dismay,  and  he  rushed  back  to  the  group 
pale  and  breathless. 

"A  man,"  he  exclaimed,  when  he  could  find  his 
tongue.  "  A  drownded  man  in  the  water,  and  his  face 
all  big  and  white  !  " 

"You're  crazy,  Charley.  Frightened  by  a  stone," 
said  one  of  the  larger  girls. 

"  I  ain't,  neither.  'Twan't  no  stone.  I  see  his  face 
and  his  hair." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.'* 

"Come  and  see  for  yourself,"  said  the  indignant 
hero. 

But  most  of  the  group  hung  back,  glancing  at  each 
other  with  great,  frightened  eyes.  Presently  some  of 


SAVED.  101 

the  more  courageous  ventured  to  follow  Charley.  He 
went  along  plucky  enough  until  he  neared  the  fatal 
spot ;  then  he  looked  around  to  see  if  they  were 
following. 

"  There  !  "     His  finger  pointed  through  the  trees. 

A  ghastly,  upturned  face,  swollen  to  twice  its  natural 
size  !  No  wonder  screams  of  affright  broke  from  those 
young  lips,  and  that  some  should  obey  their  first 
impulse  of  flight.  Others  gazed  in  white  terror,  as  if 
fascinated. 

When  it  came  to  them  that  this  was  Mr.  Vennard's 
body,  they  hurried  home  with  the  tidings.  An  hour 
afterwards,  the  whole  town  was  in  wild  excitement. 
There  was  a  cut  on  the  temple  of  such  force  that  it 
had  fractured  the  bone,  and  three  discolored  spots  at 
the  throat,  as  if  marked  by  fingers  in  the  death  strug- 
gle. His  watch  and  pocket-book  were  found  upon  his 
person.  The  motive  had  not  been  plunder. 

A  coroner's  jury  were  summoned  immediately.  It 
was  in  session  that  day  and  the  next,  and  returned  a 
verdict  of  "  wilful  murder." 

Stephen  took  home  the  news,  to  Joe's  great  gratifica- 
tion ;  for  since  her  uncle's  illness  her  daily  allowance 
of  gossip  had  been  abridged.  He  had  become  used  to 
his  burden  in  some  degree  ;  so  he  was  able  to  master  his 
voice  in  telling  the  details. 

"  It  seems  robbery  wasn't  the  object,"  he  said,  with 


102  STEPHEN   DANE. 

emphasis.  "I'm  sorry  for  any  man  who  has  ever  had 
a  quarrel  with  him." 

A  light  came  into  the  wan  face  of  Archy  Dane. 

Stephen  would  fain  have  gone  to  his  own  room  that 
night,  but  the  wistful  eyes  followed  him  about.  The 
old  bleared  look  of  intoxication  had  grown  fainter  during 
these  few  days. 

"Don't  go;  don't  leave  me,  Stephen;"  and  he 
stretched  out  his  skeleton  hand.  There  was  a  world  of 
entreaty  in  the  voice. 

"  I  think  you  will  sleep  to-night." 

"  I  can't  stay  here  alone  ;  "  and  he  started  up  in  vague 
terror.  "If  you  could  see  —  no,  it  ain't  devils  !  But 
he'll  drag  me  out  with  him.  Save  me,  Stephen  !  " 

The  eyes  dilated.  The  worn  frame  trembled  with 
wild  excitement.  The  very  fingers  shook  as  if  with  an 
ague. 

"I'll  stay.  I  thought  you  were  better.  But  I  see 
you  cannot  do  without  your  clumsy  nurse ;  "  and  Stephen 
tried  to  smile. 

"You  shall  have  part  of  my  bed.  Don't  leave  me, 
Stephen." 

"There,  be  quiet.     I'll  sleep  here,  on  the  settle." 

"  Bolt  the  door.  Do  you  think  any  one  will  come  ?  " 
and  the  eyes  glared  like  fire. 

"  Why,  no.  It's  all  right  now.  Drink  this  ;  "  and  he 
gave  him  a  composing  draught. 

By  morning  he  had-sunk  back  into  the  old  stupor. 


SAVED.  103 

It  was  best,  and  gave  Stephen  a  feeling  of  greater 
safety. 

Then  came  a  new  shock.  Forbes  had  been  arrested 
for  the  murder.  Since  his  discharge  from  the  Foundery, 
he  had  been  fierce  in  his  denunciations  of  Mr.  Vennard, 
and  more  than  once  used  threatening  language.  He 
had  been  among  the  first  to  suspect  murder. 

It  is  strange  how  circumstances  can  be  twisted  and 
tortured  even  with  a  semblance  of  truth.  Stephen 
Dane  had  been  summoned  as  a  witness,  and  was  there 
in  his  place.  He  had  heard  Forbes's  triumphant  asser- 
tion that  he  could  prove  an  alibi ;  he  knew  him  in- 
nocent ;  yet  he  felt,  but  for  that,  he  must  have  been 
tempted  to  believe  him  guilty.  I  cannot  describe  to 
you  the  cruel  anguish  of  his  mind  as  he  listened  to 
the  evidence.  Forbes  must  be  acquitted.  If  no  other 
way  — 

His  mind  wandered  from  the  jury  and  the  witnesses. 
At  home  there  was  a  poor  feeble  life,  scarcely  worth 
the%aving;  but  some  tie  of  blood  strong  upon  him, 
some  strange  pity  or  fine  sense  of  honor,  bade  him  save 
it.  The  sacrifice  was  fearful.  Youth,  health,  man- 
hood's strength  and  ambition,  revolted.  He  .was  in- 
nocent too.  Much  might  be  done  with  his  own  life ; 
but  this  other,  come  to  the  muddy,  vapid  dregs,  what 
was  it  worth  ?  Could  he  do  it  ?  Every  pulse  mutinied. 
A  disgraceful  death,  or  a  felon's  miserable  existence  in 
some  foul  prison.  O  God  !  O  God  1 


104  STEPHEN  DANE. 

He  reached  up  his  hands.  He  wanted  to  take  hold 
of  something  stronger  than  himself.  In  his  over- 
whelming agony  he  prayed.  At  this  crisis  of  his  life 
there  must  be  a  God.  He  could  not  do  without  one. 

«  Stephen  Dane  !  " 

He  arose  like  one  dazed.  He  made  a  step  forward, 
relieved  to  find  his  incompetency  was  more  mental  than 
physical.  But  he  seemed  to  have  no  feet,  no  will  to 
guide  himself,  no  strength. 

Somehow  he  found  his  place.  How  much  was  the 
"whole  truth"? 

"  Did  you  see  Forbes  the  day  he  was  discharged  ?  " 

That  recalled  Stephen's  wandering  brain.  With  a 
strong  effort  he  steadied  his  mind. 

"Yes." 

"  Did  he  use  threatening  or  abusive  language  ?  " 

"He  was  angry.  I  did  not  stop  to  hear  what  he 
said ;  "  and  Stephen's  breath  came  in  slow  gasps.  His 
very  brain  wavered  with  the  effort  to  distinguish  be- 
tween necessity  and  right,  and  the  desire  not  to  ajftact 
suspicion  to  himself. 

"Do  you  know  whether  he  had  made  any  threats 
before?" 

"I  never  heard  him.'* 

He  was  glad  he  could  say  this,  though  he  knew 
Forbes  had  been  one  of  the  loud  talkers  at  the 
tavern. 

"You  were  in  Bross's  Mill  the  morning  after  the 


SAVED.  105 

disappearance.  Forbes  hinted  that  something  had 
happened  to  Mr.  Vennard  —  did  he  not?" 

"He  spoke  of  an  accident,  I  think.  We  were  all 
excited ; "  and  Stephen's  throat  constricted  at  the  re- 
membrance. 

"  Was  there  not  something  suspicious  in  his  conduct 
—  an  exultation  at  the  idea  of  Mr.  Vennard's  death  ?  " 

It  was  a  cruel  thrust  for  the  witness.  Great  drops 
of  perspiration  started  to  his  forehead.  He  felt,  too, 
that  a  keen  eye  was  upon  him. 

"  He  might  have  expressed  some  gratification.  It  is 
very  natural  when  a  man  has  ground  you  to  the  last 
notch  ; "  and  Stephen  turned  at  bay  in  a  desperate  fashion. 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"I  don't  remember;  "  which  was  ifue  enough.  He 
had  a  confused  general  impression,  but  could  not  recall 
any  distinct  sentence.  "  I  do  not  think  he  talked  or 
acted  like  a  guilty  man  ;  "  and  there  was  a  sharp  ring  in 
Stephen's  voice.  Forbes,  following  him  eagerly,  gave 
an  inward  thanksgiving  for  this  good  turn.  It  seemed 
as  if  everything  had  gone  so  positively  against  him 
until  now. 

Several  more  irrelevant  questions,  and  he  returned  to 
his  seat. 

Another  witness,  and  in  that  brief  while  Stephen 
Dane  lived  ages.  Then  his  resolve  was  taken.  If 
they  committed  Forbes,  he  would  tell  them  where  they 
could  find  the  memorandum-book,  and  declare  the  man 


106  STEPHEN   DAXE. 

innocent.  Further  he  need  not  say.  Heaven  knew 
that  would  be  sufficient.  If — and  there  had  been 
many  times  when  he  had  despised  that  feeble  old  man 
at  home  —  if  he  had  failed  in  duty  (and  God  knew  he 
had)  he  would  make  amends  for  all  now.  He  gave 
himself  up  into  God's  hands.  Honor,  respect,  and 
success  were  dear,  but  he  relinquished  them.  Just  as 
God  willed,  he  prayed  humbly. 

What  was  it?  He  began  to  follow  the  testimony  in 
a  weak,  uncertain  way.  Two  men  swore  to  being  with 
Forbes  all  the  afternoon ;  one  of  them  walked  home 
with  him.  After  supper  he  went  to  the  doctor's  for 
some  medicine,  as  his  mother  had  a  "poor  turn."  He 
brought  it  back  himself,  and  remained  at  home  after  that. 

Then  came  a  rigorous  cross-examination.  The  tes- 
timony of  the  witnesses  could  not  be  shaken.  There 
was  no  weak  spot  or  flaw  in  it.  The  jury  retired. 
After  the  shuffling  of  feet  had  subsided,  there  was  a 
dead,  awful  calm.  Forbes  glanced  about  with  an  un- 
concerned air.  Dane  knew  it  for  innocence  ;  but  more 
than  one  pronounced  it  hardihood. 

Turn  it  about  in  whatever  light  they  might,  there  was 
not  sufficient  evidence  to  commit  the  prisoner.  So  they 
came  in  with  a  reluctant  verdict  of  acquittal,  which  left 
the  matter  more  of  a  mystery  than  ever. 

During  this  period  the  Foundery  was  closed,  and 
preparations  made  for  the  funeral.  The  men,  having 
nothing  to  do,  congregated  in  groups,  discussing  the 


SAVED.  107 

murder  with  great  spirit,  and  offering  many  curious 
surmises.  Forbes's  acquittal  had  been  received  with 
cheers ;  yet  I  am  not  sure  but  more  than  one  there 
present,  would  have  taken  a  grim  satisfaction  in  a  differ- 
ent verdict.  Human  nature  hates  mysteries  that  baffle 
it  continually.  There  is  a  sense  of  justice  in  every 
heart  that  can  be  appeased  only  when  the  perpetrator 
of  so  monstrous  a  crime  is  brought  to  light. 

Stephen  Dane  walked  slowly  homeward,  greatly  re- 
lieved, it  must  be  confessed,  and  yet  sorely  puzzled. 
Did  he  have  any  duty  in  this  matter  ?  Had  the  God  in 
whom  he  trusted  really  interposed  and  saved  him  ?  For 
it  might  easily  have  happened  that  Forbes  could  not 
have  been  substantiated  in  his  account  of  the  time.  He, 
as  innocent,  must  have  suffered. 

From  the  very  beginning  Providence  had,  so  to  speak, 
interposed.  If  Archy  Dane  had  kept  the  money  and  the 
papers,  he  would  have  blundered  upon  the  secret  some- 
how. If  there  had  been  any  witness  to  his  last  conver- 
sation with  Mr.  Vennard,  and  the  fact  of  his  discharge, 
suspicion  would  certainly  have  directed  itself  towards 
him.  If  his  father  had  been  well  during  this  time  of 
wild  excitement,  could  he  have  kept  his  fatal  secret? 
And  now,  if  the  old  man  paid  his  life  for  this  one  that 
he  had  taken,  the  justice  of  Heaven  would  certainly  be 
satisfied,  if  that  on  earth  remained  forever  unappeased. 
"\Vhat  hard,  knotty  problems  these  were.  He  was  not 
used  to  such  perplexing  brain-work  !  Right  and  wrong 


108  STEPHEN   DANE. 

began  to  have  a  strange  significance  for  him.  A  man's 
duty  was  something  broader  and  higher  than  he  had 
thought  it  six  months  ago. 

He  walked  wearily  homeward.  Life  itself  seemed  a 
mockery.  The  discrepancy  between  the  lofty  impulses 
of  the  soul,  — its  tender  longings,  its  hungry  ambitions, 
and  the  mean,  low  circumstances  by  which  it  is  sur-. 
rounded ;  the  discouragements  that  follow  its  highest 
efforts  ;  the  dreary  visions  that  meet  it  when  it  is  most 
in  need  of  hope  and  strength.  After  all,  were  not 
those  who  settled  in  a  lower  groove,  and  remained  there 
contentedly,  the  best  and  safest,  and  certainly  the  hap- 
piest ? 

Joe  stood  in  the  door.  It  was  a  scorching  hot  day, 
but  Stephen  wiped  something  more  than  perspiration 
from  his  brow. 

"  How  did  it  go  ?  " 

"  Forbes  was  acquitted." 

"Of  course.  You  never  believed  he  had  a  hand  in 
it,  Stephen?" 

"No."  He  dared  not  face  the  eyes  watching  him. 
With  a  sort  of  sickly,  uneasy  smile,  he  subjoined, 
"They've  offered  a  thousand  dollars  reward  for  the 
murderer." 

"I  don't  believe  they'll  find  him." 

"There  will  not  be  a  stone  left  unturned,  I  can  tell 
you.  Every  one  who  has  ever  made  a  threat  will  be 
watched  and  suspected." 


SAVED.  109 

"  You  haven't,  Stephen  ?  " 

What  did  this  girl  know?  Why,  she  was  worse 
than  the  twelve  jurymen. 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  held  to  a  strict  account  for  any 
chance  word.  There's  been  a  good  deal  of  hard  talk, 
first  and  last ;  though  I  should  come  to  a  pretty  tight 
pass  in  my  life  before  I'd  stain  it  with  such  a  black  deed. 
Old  Mr.  Ellicott's  been  taken  with  paralysis." 

"  It's  dreadful ;  "  and  Joe  shivered.  "  Mrs.  Vennard's 
going  on  like  a  crazy  woman.  No  one  seems  to  care 
about  the  child ;  but  I  suppose  she  doesn't  half  under- 
stand it." 

"No,"  said  Stephen,  briefly,  going  in  to  his  father. 

The  weak,  wandering  eyes  gave  a  faint  sign  of  rec- 
ognition. What  had  been  passing  over  yonder  he 
neither  knew,  nor  cared  to  know.  Stephen  felt  the 
pulse  —  a  faint  thread.  For  days  he  had  taken  only 
the  slightest  nourishment.  At  this  rate  the  weak  frame 
would  soon  be  worn  out.  It  was  best  so.  And  if  he 
could  never  come  to  a  sense  of  the  awful  deed  he  had 
committed  —  How  far  did  God's  mercy  extend  ? 

He  took  up  the  tattered  fan,  and  commenced  brush- 
ing away  the  flies.  Joe,  just  outside  the  door,  had  been 
having  a  good  cry  ;  why  she  hardly  knew.  Now  that 
she  felt  better,  she  came  in,  and,  stirring  among  the 
ashes,  began  "to  kindle  the  fire.  Eating  was  a  stern 
demand  of  nature.  But  Joe's  heart  was  going  through 
a  fierce  struggle  for  Stephen.  How  much  we  suffer  for 
one  another ! 


110  STEPHEN   DANE. 

Stephen  fell  into  deep  thought.  After  it  was  all 
over  —  his  duty  here  —  he  meant  to  try  the  world  ;  to 
dare  a  hard  battle,  and  win  something.  This  secret 
buried  in  the  grave,  there  would  be  no  phantom  to 
haunt  him,  to  dog  his  steps  with  that  uneasy  sense  of 
danger.  He  would  board  Joe  in  some  pleasant  family, 
and  feel  free  to  use  his  time  and  his  energy  for  himself. 
He  was  young  and  strong,  used  to  work,  willing  to 
wait.  In  ten  years  he  would  still  be  a  young  man ; 
but  at  thirty-three  he  meant  to  stand  on  some  higher 
plane  than  this. 

Joe,  little  dreaming  how  she  had  been  discarded  from 
the  fortune  Stephen  was  to  carve  out  for  himself, 
yearned  over  him  in  her  passionate  tenderness,  and 
whispered  to  herself  between  her  sighs,  "It's  all  the 
same  to  me.  If  the  whole  world  believed  it  against 
you,  'twouldn't  alter  my  love." 

A  curious  lull  fell  over  Tregony.  The  murder,  so 
daring  and  inexplicable,  became  shrouded  in  a  sort  of 
awe.  Mr.  Ellicott  died ;  and  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Ven- 
nard  came  down  to  offer  his  condolence  and  assist- 
ance. Nothing  could  be  done  at  present  at  the  Foun- 
dery.  So  the  whole  town  seemed  idle,  but  wonderfully 
quiet.  Men  spoke  in  lower  tones.  There  was  no  fierce 
denunciation  of  the  one  who  had  rendered  himself  so 
universally  disliked  by  the  lower  class.  All  the  women 
felt  a  grief  and  pity  for  Mrs.  Vennard,  doubly  bereaved, 
but  ended  their  regrets  in  a  way  true  to  human  nature. 


SAVED.  Ill 

"  'Tain't  so  hard  for  her  as  'twould  be  for  one  o'  us. 
She's  plenty  o'  money.  She  won't  know  much  about 
want." 

Which  was  very  just. 

Stephen  Dane  remained  at  home,  mostly.'  The  town 
talk  was  to  him  a  dagger  thrust  into  a  fresh  wound. 
Adams  dropped  in  frequently ;  but  his  conversation  ran 
in  a  different  channel. 

"Dane,"  he  said  one  evening,  as  they  sat  out  on  a 
large  stone,  smoking,  "Dane,  I've  an  idea  that  might 
be  worked  up  to  profit  for  both  of  us.  What's  the 
good  of  your  spending  all  your  life  here  in  Tregony  ?  " 

"I  don't  mean  to.  I'd  leave  it  to-morrow,  if  I 
could." 

"There's  no  telling  anything  about  the  Foundery. 
I  have  a  little  money,  and  if  you  could  raise  as  much, 
we  might  go  to  Philadelphia  and  commence  business  in 
a  small  way.  I've  some  friends  there  that  would  be  of 
service.  I  tried  the  experiment  once  before,  but  didn't 
succeed ; "  knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  with  a 
grim  smile.  "  It  was  with  a  fellow  who  had  a  weakness 
for  a  fast  horse ;  rather  expensive,  you  see ;  and  he 
just  cleaned  me  all  out.  I  think  .we  might  make  it  go. 
You're  an  honest  man,  Dane,  in  other  matters  beside 
money." 

"How  much  capital?"  was  Dane's  brief  query. 

"I  have  about  a  thousand  dollars.  It  would  be  a 
small  beginning,  to  be  sure ; "  with  a  doubtful  com- 


112  STEPHEN  DANE. 

pression  of  the  lips  ;  M  but  we're  both  practical  workmen. 
We  shouldn't  need  any  help  for  some  time,  and  if  we 
didn't  earn  quite  wages  in  the  beginning  —  we  haven't 
either  of  us  any  expensive  habits." 

"No.  I'd  be  willing  to  live  on  a  crust  and  cold 
water." 

"You're  a  plucky  fellow.  I  like  that  in  you.  I  tell 
you,  Dane,"  —  and  he  brought  his  fist  forcibly  down  on 
his  knee,  —  "you  are  just  the  kind  of  man  that  succeeds. 
When  you  get  hold  of  an  idea,  there's  no  let  up  to 
your  grip.  A  man  needs  just  that  patient,  dogged  sort 
of  perseverance  to  accomplish  anything.  And  I  believe 
you  can  make  Vennard's  theory  .work.  I've  been 
studying  over  that  cut-off  of  yours,  and  the  steam-chest. 
There's  a  secret  of  success  somewhere  in  it.  We  could 
try  experiments  on  a  small  scale  until  pretty  sure.  I 
know  some  scientific  men  there,  who  would  take  a 
young  beginner  by  the  hand." 

How  plausible  all  this  looked  !  He  had  been  wishing 
for  some  friend  to  give  him  a  lift.  This  first  step  wa9 
so  hard  !  But  the  money  —  could  he  wring  it  out  of 
these  stones? 

Just  there,  at  the.  root  of  the  woodbine,  lay  five 
hundred  dollars.  No  stir  had  been  made  about  it ; 
perhaps,  indeed,  it  had  not  been  missed.  He  had 
racked  his  brains  with  vain  projects  to  restore  it  un- 
observed. Mrs.  Vennard  had  enough,  surely.  If  he 
should  borrow  it  for  a  few  years  ? 


SAVED.  113 

He  drew  his  breath  hard.  The  man  seemed  sorely 
beset  on  every  side. 

"If  I  could  raise  the  money,"  he  said,  slowly. 

"  O,  you  can  between  this  and  the  first  of  September. 
If  you  left  Tregony,  you'd  sell  the  place,  of  course?" 

"Yes." 

"There  doesn't  seem  much  hope  for  your  father, 
Dane  ?  " 

"No.     And  after  that,  I'd  planned  to  go  away." 

"Five  weeks."  Adams's  voice  dropped  into  a  musing 
tone.  "The  August  dog-days  '11  go  hard  with  him. 
He's  only  a  shadow  now.  Suppose  I  should  go  to 
Philadelphia,  Dane,  and  look  around  a  little." 

"Well,"  was  the  slow  reply.  What  if  he  was 
counting  on  contingencies  that  might  never  happen  ! 
What  if  Adams  should  return  to  find  him  in  a  prison 
cell !  He  could  not  forget,  even  for  an  hour,  the 
terrible  shadow  that  enveloped  him.  He  put  his 
fingers  to  his  temple  in  a  nervous  way,  as  if  afraid  the 
other  would  hear  its  throbs. 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  would  be  a  good  plan.  I  never  met 
a  man  I  felt  so  like  pulling  with,  as  you,  Dane.  And 
now  that  you've  outlived  your  socialist  fever  — "  he 
gave  a  short  laugh. 

"Yes,  God  knows  I've  outlived  that!"  His  voice 
was  fierce  and  hard.  "  When  a  man  comes  face  to  face 
with  destiny,  he  needs  something  stronger  than  idle 
delusions.  And  I'm  willing  to  work  my  way  out  to 


114  STEPHEN   DANE. 

the  light.  There  is  one,  I  know.  And  help,  too. 
Others  may  pin  their  faith  to  these  maudlin  beliefs  and 
sentiments,  but  I  never  shall  again.  The  world  may  be 
at  loose  ends,  but  each  man  has  enough  to  do  to  attend 
to  his  own  soul." 

"  And  his  own  business." 

"Yes." 

Then  they  smoked  in  silence  a  while.  The  young 
moon  was  coming  up  over  the  black  Foundery  chimneys. 
A  tremulous  flutter  of  south  wind  stole  softly  around, 
deadening  the  intense  heat  of  the  day.  Over  the  river 
at  the  west,  there  was  still  a  faint  pink  tinge  lingering 
in  the  evening  sky.  A  breath  of  newly-mown  hay,  and 
the  spice  of  the  cedars  was  wafted  up  to  them.  The 
hedge  was  alive  with  chirping  insects.  A  balmy,  glow- 
ing summer  night. 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  to  Philadelphia,  then."  He  gave 
a  furtive  glance  in-doors.  It  would  have  been  hea- 
thenish to  wish  that  poor  old  man  out  of  the  way ;  but 
he  had  a  fancy  the  son  would  feel  much  freer.  And 
herein  he  was  right,  though  he  did  not  mistrust  the 
terrible  reason  that  swayed  Stephen  Dane. 

After  Adams  left  Tregony,  the  days  seemed  inter- 
minable to  Dane.  He  could  not  pray  for  'the  event 
that  was  to  bring  him  liberty.  It  was  in  God's  hands, 
and  he  had  accepted  His  fiat.  But  it  was  so  hard 
to  wait ! 

Archy  Dane   grew  neither   better   nor  worse.     He 


SAVED.  115 

seemed  sinking  into  second  childhood,  and  more  than 
once  mistook  Joe  for  the  wife  who  had  been  so  many 
years  dead.  But  his  eyes  continually  followed  Stephen 
about  with  a  wistful,  deprecating  expression,  and  oc- 
casionally the  bony  hand  clutched  him  with  an  urgent 
grasp,  as  if  to  implore  an  assurance  of  safety.  So  the 
time  sped  on.  What  was  to  be  done?  They  were 
already  in  arrears  at  the  grocery.  He  had  found  a  few 
days'  work,  but  a  spirit  of  dulness  brooded  over 
Tregony.  Want  began  to  stare  them  in  the  face. 
He  would  be  compelled  to  go  away  to  keep  them  from 
starvation.  Where  did  God  mean  to  bring  him  by 
this  thorny  path?  For,  though  faith  was  weak,  there 
was  a  little  glimmer  of  light,  and  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed 
steadily  on  it,  like  a  man  who,  perishing  with  cold  and 
weariness  on  some  forlorn  moor,  looks  at  the  far  ray  in 
a  distant  cottage  window.  He  may  die  before  he 
reaches  it,  but  he  goes  on,  nevertheless. 

At  last  Stephen  broke  the  ice  with  Joe.  Some  step 
must  be  taken. 

"  Go  away  !  "  she  exclaimed,  in  dull  amaze.  "  You 
wouldn't  leave  me  alone  with  him,  Stephen ! "  and  she 
nodded  towards  the  bedroom. 

"What  am  I  to  do?     We  cannot  starve." 

Joe  thought  of  five  hundred  dollars  somewhere.     If 
brought   to   bay  desperately,    might    she    not   use   her 
secret.      For   to    stay   here    after   Stephen  was   gone 
would  be  impossible.     It  would  kill  her. 
8 


116  STEPHEN  DANE. 

"  Sell  the  place,"  she  said,  "  and  take  us  with  you. 
For,  I  tell  you,  I  will  not  stay  here." 

There  was  a  look  of  threatening  defiance  in  her  eye. 
It  made  Stephen  shiver  and  turn  pale. 

"Stephen,"  the  feeble  voice  called. 

He  answered  the  summons. 

The  shaky  fingers  reached  out  imploringly.  "  What 
did  she  say,  Stephen  —  goin'  away  —  sellin'  the  place  ? 
Is  she  gon'ter  be  married  ?  Gals  do.  You'll  keep  by 
me,  Stephen  ? "  and  his  breath  came  in  frightened 
gasps. 

"There's  nothing  for  me  to  do  here,  in  Tregony. 
And  we  must  have  money."  There  he  paused. 

"Yes,  sell  t'  place.  And,  Stephen,  take  me  with 
you.  There's  an  ugly  black  ghost  down  in  the  woods. 
I  never  told  no  one.  I  never  told  you.  And  in  the 
river  —  " 

The  old  frightened  look  was  haunting  his  eyes.  His 
jaw  fell,  and  the  wrinkles  in  his  face  deepened,  as  also 
the  gray  pallor. 

"  Hush,  hush  !  that's  childish  talk.  Would  you  like 
to  go  away?" 

"Take  me,  Stephen,  take  me.     Anywhere." 

He  gave  a  sort  of  spring  to  his  son's  arms.  He 
fastened  his  own  around  Stephen's  neck,  and  moaned 
piteously,  — 

"  Take  me  with  you  —  don't  leave  me,  Stephen." 


SAVED.  117 

"If  you  would  like  to  go  —  if  we  could  sell  the 
place  — "  and  he  laid  him  back  on  the  bed. 

"Yes,  sell  it.  All  the  air  is  full,"  lowering  his  voice 
to  a  whisper,  "full  of  little  devils.  I  can't  breathe  for 
them.  And  it  makes  me  sick  —  sick,"  with  a  shudder. 

"I'll  take  you  away  to  some  quiet  place,  where  you 
can  be  at  peace.  And  I'll  stay  with  you  always  — 
always."  He  said  it  over  to  reassure  himself.  And 
yet  with  a  sickening  sensation.  What  if  it  should  be 
for  years?  He  had  counted  so  largely  on  freedom. 
The  whole  world  seemed  blurred  and  faded  before 
his  eyes. 

An  hour  afterwards  his  father  wanted  to  get  up,  and 
sit  by  the  window.  And  then  he  begged  Stephen  to 
take  him  out.  He  wanted  a  breath  of  air.  Feeble 
and  tottering  the  steps  were,  and  the  hands  grasped 
Stephen's  brawny  shoulders  for  support.  But  the  eyes 
looked  less  wild. 

Stephen  thrust  down  the  fiend  of  impatience  that 
kept  tugging  at  his  heart.  Since  he  had  accepted 
God's  time  and  God's  way,  he  must  abide  by  them. 
And  if  this  burden  should  be  his  for  years  to  come  — 

Do  not  condemn  him.  There  are  times,  in  the  lives 
of  all,  when  we  think  we  can  see  farther  than  God,  and 
are  wiser.  Archy  Dane's  life  seemed  of  such  little 
value ;  besides,  there  was  a  sort  of  stern  justice  in  his 
death.  And  Stephen  would  be  so  relieved  by  it  I  No 
matter  how  he  prospered ;  one  inadvertent  word  might 


118  STEPHEN   DANE. 

bring  him  down  to  disgrace  and  degradation  in  a  mo- 
ment. For  now  that  he  had  concealed  the  crime,  he 
had  in  some  degree  become  accessory.  The  flames 
were  hedging  him  in  on  every  side. 

It  might  have  been  the  thought  of  going  away  that 
roused  Archy  Dane  to  a  new  sense  of  life.  Certainly 
he  began  to  improve.  His  mind  was  vague  and 
wandering,  sinking  into  a  sort  of  imbecility ;  but  he 
gained  physical  strength,  and  with  his  son's  assistance 
walked  a  little  every  day.  It  was  evident  he  would 
live.  Any  talk  of  selling  out  roused  him  in  a  moment. 
He  was  earnest  to  be  away ;  if  that  restless  vagueness 
deserved  so  strong  a  name.  Stephen  offered  the  place 
immediately. 

Neighbor  Fawcett  came  up  to  talk  it  over.  The 
land  joined  his,  and  he  would  like  to  have  it ;  but 
the  old  house  was  no  object.  They  halted  at  the 
price. 

Adams  found  affairs  in  this  state  when  he  returned. 
He  was  surprised  at  the  amendment  in  Mr.  Dane, 
though  the  tottering  step  and  trembling  limbs  did  not 
give  promise  of  much  strength.  He  was  very  en- 
thusiastic about  his  new  arrangements.  He  had  hired 
a  shop  to  his  liking,  and  been  to  look  at  some  second- 
hand machinery. 

"Two  thousand  seems  like  stocking  a  baby-house, 
instead  of  such  a  place,"  he  said,  gravely.  "I  have 
some  good  friends,  it  is  true,  and  one  order  to  begin 


SAVED.  119 

with ;  and  we  shall  be  able  to  increase.  It  oughtn't  be 
less  than  five  thousand." 

A  fluttering  seized  Stephen  Dane's  heart.  What  if 
he  should  risk  this  five  hundred  that  he  intended  to  bor- 
row only,  and  lose  it !  He  would  be  a  thief.  It  was 
an  ugly  word. 

"  Perhaps  we  had  better  not  try  it.  It  is  a  miserably 
small  capital ;  "  and  his  hands  twitched  nervously  at  his 
beard. 

"No,  Dane,  don't  back  out.  We'll  fight  it  through 
some  way.  If  you  could  only  be  free !  A  man  can 
live  so  much  more  cheaply  by  himself.  I've  often  won- 
dered why  poor  men  were  crazy  to  encumber  themselves 
with  a  wife  and  lots  of  children." 

"But  I  can't  be  free."  Dane's  voice  was  hoarse  and 
tremulous,  and  his  whole  frame  shook  as  if  with  ague. 

"  We'll  make  the  best  of  it.  No  use  meeting  diffi- 
culties half  way." 

There  was  some  sturdy  philosophy  in  this.  Yet  every 
nerve  in  Stephen  Dane's  body  felt  sore  and  strained  ;  his 
brain  had  been  rasped  to  that  point  of  irritability  when 
one  more  touch  verges  on  distraction.  And  yet  he  went 
through  with  his  duties  calmly  ;  he  was  tenderly  patient 
with  his  poor  old  father,  and  so  kind  to  Joe  that  it  made 
her  heart  ache  with  a  nameless  pain. 

At  last  Fawcett  bought  the  place.  Six  hundred  was 
the  utmost  he  could  be  induced  to  give.  The  furniture, 
of  but  little  value,  was  disposed  of  speedily  to  one  and 


120  STEPHEN   DANE. 

another.  The  few  remaining  effects  were  packed,  and 
preparations  made  for  their  journey.  Adams  had  gone 
back  already. 

And  so  Stephen  Dane  left  the  old  life  behind.  With 
fear  and  trembling.  The  world  looked  so  wide,  and, 
in  spite  of  ambition,  dreary.  It  was  one  thing  to  dream 
of  success  here,  and  another  to  dare  it.  If  he  should 
fail! 

Out  of  the  anguish  of  his  heart  he  cried  to  God. 
Out  of  the  bitter  depths,  out  of  the  darkness  and  the 
desert.  Was  there  any  one  to  pity  and  to  save  ? 


THE   NEW    DAWN.  121 


vn. 

THE  NEW  DAWN. 


THREE  years  had  passed  since  Stephen  Dane  left 
Tregony.  Years  of  toil  and  patience,  years  of 
endurance,  and  sometimes,  almost  unknown  to  himself, 
years  of  hope.  The  actual  struggle  was  so  different 
from  the  half-defined  ideas  that  had  haunted  him  at  the 
forge  in  Tregony,  or  looking  over  that  calm,  wonderful 
river.  When  he  came  to  Philadelphia  he  had  very  little 
besides  the  thousand  dollars  he  had  placed  in  Adams's 
hands.  Three  rooms  had  been  taken  in  an  obscure 
street  near  the  shop.  What  if  they  were  uncarpeted? 
Stephen  Dane  had  no  weak  longing  after  luxuries  ;  be- 
sides, he  had  been  used  to  privations  all  his  life.  And 
Joe  was  a  most  comfortable  housekeeper  in  this  respect  ; 
she  did  not  grumble  at  any  want.  She  missed  her  old 
gossips  with  Sally  Fawcett  sorely;  but  the  strange 
place,  —  for  she  had  never  been  out  of  Tregony,  —  the 
shop  windows,  gayly  arranged,  the  long  market  with  its 
endless  variety,  were  unfailing  sources  of  interest.  When 
she  could  find  her  way  about  without  difficulty,  all  her 


122  STEPHEN   DANE. 

spare  moments  were  spent  in  the  street,  and  the  excite- 
ment kept  her  in  excellent  spirits. 

Archy  Dane,  feeble  and  maundering,  followed  his 
son  from  house  to  shop,  and  back  again,  with  the  jeal- 
ous tenacity  of  a  dog.  When  Stephen  was  out  of  his 
sight,  he  was  restless  and  dissatisfied ;  but  he  would  sit 
for  hours  watching  him,  in  perfect  content.  He  seemed 
to  have  lost  much  of  his  memory.  Indeed,  that  one 
terrible  transaction  appeared  to  have  faded  from  his 
mind  completely.  The  only  reminder  of  it  was  in  his 
intense  dislike  of  rivers.  Shortly  after  their  arrival, 
Stephen  had  taken  him  and  Joe  up  the  Schuylkill  for  a 
pleasant  sail.  The  old,  frightened  look  had  come  into 
Archy  Dane's  eyes,  the  quiver  to  his  limbs,  and  he  had 
begged  piteously  to  be  taken  back,  seeming  to  appre- 
hend some  imminent  danger  to  them  all.  So  great 
were  his  sufferings  that  Stephen  resolved  never  to 
repeat  the  trip  with  him.  But  it  appeared  as  if  he 
might  go  on  in  this  mere  physical  existence  for  years. 

When  Stephen  Dane  first  determined  to  use  the 
money  that  had  so  strangely  fallen  into  his  hands,  it 
was  not  without  a  severe  struggle  and  many  misgivings. 
If  it  had  been  possible  to  restore  it  unquestioned,  or 
without  arousing  suspicion,  he  would  have  done  so  at 
first.  Since  this  had  not  been,  the  temptation  of  using 
it  had  proved  too  strong.  Yet  he  had  not  blinded  him- 
self by  any  sophisms.  He  had  grown  too  clear-sighted 
of  late  to  be  led  astray  by  them.  This  money  was  not 


THE   NEW   DAWN.  123 

his,  but  to  be  held  in  a  sort  of  sacred  trust  until  such  a 
time  as  he  might  be  able  to  restore  it  without  any  evil 
consequences.  This  time  had  come  after  leaving  Tre- 
gony.  He  could  mail  it  in  any  city,  with  the  simple 
explanation  of  it  being  a  debt  due  the  estate,  and  be 
sure  of  secrecy.  But  it  seemed  as  if  here  was  an  open- 
ing that  might  never  occur  in  his  life  again.  He  would 
borrow  the  money,  faithfully  repaying  pi-incipal  and 
interest  at  the  very  earliest  opportunity. 

The  excitement  concerning  the  murder  was  still  strong 
when  he  left  Tregony.  It  seemed  impossible  that  so 
daring  and  flagrant  a  crime  could  have  been  committed, 
and  no  trace  be  left  of  the  perpetrators.  The  reward 
had  stimulated  every  one  to  renewed  effort,  but  still 
without  the  slightest  success.  As  time- wore  on,  and 
the  mystery  remained  unsolved,  interest  was  gradually 
transferred  from  the  dead  to  the  living.^ 

Mr.  Forsyth,  a  connection  of  Mrs.  Vennard,  was 
appointed  one  of  the  executors,  and,  conjointly  with 
herself,  little  Hope's  guardian.  Seven  months  after  her 
husband's  death  Mrs.  Vennard  had  given  birth  to  a 
little  boy,  who  wailed  out  a  short  period  of  sickly  baby- 
hood, and  died.  After  this  the  business  proceeded  to 
a  slow  settlement.  The  Foundery  was  opened  under 
new  auspices,  the  grand  house  sold  in  its  unfinished 
state.  In  little  more  than  a  year  Mrs.  Vennard  had 
become  Mrs.  Forsyth. 

Stephen  Dane  smiled  contemptuously  when  he  heard 


124  STEPHEN   DANE. 

this.  Poor  little  Hope,  how  would  she  fare?  He  re- 
solved then  that  this  money  in  his  possession  should  be 
held  in  trust  for  Hope.  At  some  distant  day  he  would 
restore  it  to  her. 

There  were  many  hard  struggles  during  the  first  year, 
on  their  limited  capital.  They  were  both  energetic  and 
persevering,  and  found  good  friends.  The  second  year 
they  began  to  breathe  more  freely,  and  go  back  to  the 
old  enthusiasm  concerning  their  experiment.  All  their 
spare  hours  were  spent  upon  the  model.  New  theories 
took  the  place  of  old  ones.  It  became  to  both  an  ob- 
ject of  more  than  interest  —  strange,  wonderful  love. 
Disappointment  endeared  it  only  the  more.  And  as  it 
approached  completion,  as  it  worked  more  and  more 
satisfactorily,  their  enthusiasm  grew  into  reverence. 

Yet  all  of  Stephen  Dane's  life  did  not  go  into  this. 
As  soon  as  circumstances  warranted,  he  had  changed  to 
a  more  comfortable  abode,  something  he  could  beautify 
with  flowers  and  sunshine.  They  had  a  "  best  room," 
with  a  bright  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  a  few  cheap  pic- 
tures that  he  had  found  at  an  old  second-hand  stall,  of 
much  more  value  than  their  price  indicated.  One,  a 
warm,  changeful  thing,  with  tints  of  sunset  glow,  bits 
of  silvery  water,  and  a  shallow,  pebbly  lake-shore,  the 
tiny  stones  washed  to  whiteness  by  the  slow  motion  of 
the  current.  Some  books  on  a  shelf — though  these 
were  mostly  of  a  scientific  nature  ;  an  easy  chair,  cush- 
ioned with  crimson  worsted  damask,  where  his  father 


THE   NEW   DAWN.  125 

could  sit  and  doze.  The  old  man  had  changed  some- 
what. He  would  always  be  thin,  angular,  and  shaky, 
but  his  clothes  were  clean  and  whole,  his  hair  and  beard 
neatly  trimmed.  They  were  snow-white  now. 

Joe  had  improved,  too.  She  no  longer  went  about 
slip-shod,  with  torn  dresses  and  disordered  hair.  Ste- 
phen had  insisted  upon  a  dress-maker  taking  her  in 
hand ;  and  it  was  astonishing  to  see  how  her  whole 
figure  had  changed.  Her  hair,  the  only  beauty  she 
possessed, — for  it  was  long,  soft,  and  fine,  and  of  a 
shadowy,  purple-black  tint,  —  was  trained  into  a  luxuri- 
ant coil  at  the  back  of  her  head,  with  no  stray,  untidy 
ends.  Her  collar  was  always  fresh  and  white,  fastened 
with  a  knot  of  ribbon.  Stephen  kept  her  well  supplied. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  had  inherited  all  these  delicate,  wo- 
manly attributes,  a  quick  eye  and  refined  taste,  a  cer- 
tain sense  of  harmony  and  propriety.  Joe  lacked  them 
entirely.  She  had  so  little  perception  or  tact.  She  did 
these  things,  not  from  any  love  of  being  pretty,  but 
simply  because  they  pleased  Stephen.  If  living  in  some 
wretched  hut  without  them  would  have  won  his  love, 
she  would  have  been  satisfied  all  the  same.  Apart 
from  him,  beauty  or  order  was  of  but  little  consequence 
to  her. 

She  studied  somewhat,  too.  Hard  work  it  was.  She 
had  an  innate  dislike  to  books.  She  puzzled  her  brains 
over  them  until  her  whole  body  revolted.  She  left  off 
her  provincialisms,  she  no  longer  clipped  her  words  in 


126  STEPHEN   DANE. 

ignorant  economy,  and  yet  she  was  far  from  any  re- 
ceived standard  of  intellectuality.  A  shadow  of  the 
old  life  would  always  hang  about  her.  Was  it  some 
inherent  birth-mark?  It  was  true  she  had  come  of 
generations  of  sloth,  thriftlessness,  and  dissipation. 
Who  shall  answer  for  it?  Who  has  deprived  these 
weak,  uncertain  souls  of  the  sure  stay  and  support  — 
the  birthright  God  meant  them  to  have  ? 

There  was  but  one  strong  passion  in  the  nature  of 
Josephine  Dane  —  her  love  for  Stephen.  A  more 
vigorous  minded  girl  might  have  found  a  mate  beyond 
the  precincts  of  her  home,  but  with  Joe,  association  was 
a  great  deal.  Her  soul  seemed  to  be  purely  mechani- 
cal. Put  it  in  any  common  groove,  and  it  would  soon 
become  accustomed  to  the  routine,  and  ask  no  other. 
It  would  never  torment  you  by  sending  out  troublesome 
shoots,  by  forcing  a  passage  up  into  the  light  and  air, 
or  demanding  finer  nourishment  than  it  found  in  its 
narrow  sphere.  She  had  loved  him,  not  for  any  strong 
or  striking  characteristic,  but  simply  because  he  came 
in  her  way.  Her  highest  ideal  of  life  had  been  Sally 
Fawcett.  A  jolly,  not  over  neat  matron,  laughing  and 
scolding  in  a  breath ;  taking  life  easy  if  the  house  did 
remain  unswept,  and  the  children  tumbling  about  in 
rags.  She  had  fancied  herself  falling  into  something 
like  this.  What  if  Stephen  did  go  to  the  tavern  and 
come  home  a  little  merry?  His  kisses  even  then  would 
be  sweeter  than  clean,  orderly  silence  and  abstinence. 


THE    NEW   DAWN.  127 

And  if  children  hung  about  her  knees  or  tangled  their 
sticky  hands  in  her  unkempt  hair,  —  what  matter,  so 
long  as  they  were  his  ! 

But  this  day-dream  was  going' through  a  slow,  cruel 
process  of  disillusion.  That  careless,  rollicking  exist- 
ence would  never  be  hers.  She  was  lifted  up  to  a  new 
sphere  —  one  less  congenial.  Thought,  or  any  kind  of 
brain  work,  was  hard  labor  to  her.  She  would  rather 
stand  over  the  steaming  washing-tub  all  day.  Stephen 
went  up  to  new  heights  easily  and  naturally,  and  to  be 
a  little  nearer  him,  she  followed  reluctantly. 

And  yet  she  seemed  to  understand  that  the  gulf 
between  them  was  widening,  had  been  ever  since  the 
advent  of  Adams  and  the  books.  She  was  not  so  happy 
for  it  —  he  happier.  This  was  what  she  could  not 
account  for,  and  she  held  against  them  a  sort  of  jealous 
grudge.  As  if  Stephen  had  no  right  to  outstrip  her  ! 

Stephen,  being  a  man,  and  much  occupied  with  his 
labor  and  his  plans,  studied  Joe  very  superficially. 
So  long  as  she  was  comfortable  and  made  no  com- 
plaints, so  long  as  her  calico  dresses  were  neat  and  trim, 
the  cherry-colored  ribbon  at  her  throat  fresh,  and  her 
bonnet  not  too  showy  in  its  floral  adornments,  he  was 
satisfied.  To  have  her  read  a  whole  page,  or  a  news- 
paper column,  without  stumbling  or  miscalling  words, 
and  write  a  neat  order  for  the  grocer,  were  achieve- 
ments in  his  eyes.  He  praised  her  for  them.  And  the 
smiles,  the  kind  words,  gave  her  hope  when  hope  was 


128  STEPHEN   DANE. 

almost 'dead.  It  never  occurred  to  her  that  it  might 
not  be  as  easy  for  Stephen  to  love  her,  as  it  was  for  her 
to  love  him. 

At  last  the  most  eventful  day  of  Stephen  Dane's  life 
drew  nigh.  The  model  had  been  removed  to  the  shop 
of  a  friend,  a  man  well  known  in  business  circles,  and 
who  had  been  very  kind  to  these  young  beginners,  so 
stubbornly  contesting  Dame  Fortune.  A  number  of 
scientific  men  and  practical  machinists  had  been  invited 
to  the  trial. 

"If  you  want  to  go  up,  Adams,"  Dane  said  in  an  un- 
steady voice,  "go  on.  I'd  rather  stay  here.  Somehow 
it  seems  like  trying  a  critical  surgical  operation  on  a 
beloved  child.  You  don't  know  whether  it  will  fail  or 
succeed.  And  I  believe  I'm  a  coward.  If  I  should 
have  to  take  the  poor  mangled  remains  back  into  my 
arms,  I  should  break  down  into  womanish  tears." 

"Don't  talk  so,  Dane;  you  make  me  nervous.  It 
can't  fail.  McKinstry  said  so,  and  his  word  is  as  good 
as  any  of  them.  He  offered  to  buy  us  both  out  this 
morning.  Yes,  I'd  like  to  go,  and  you  must  too, 
Dane.  Let's  shut  up  shop,  and  take  a  holiday.  We've 
earned  it." 

"No,  no;  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I'm  in  earnest, 
Adams.  To  come  so  near,  and  fail  1 " 

«  Tut,  man  !     Who  thinks  of  failure  ?  " 

"Go  on  then." 


THE   NEW  DAWN.  129 

"  And  come  back  a  successful  man  on  the  high  road 
to  fortune.  Is  that  what  you  mean  ?  " 

Stephen  gave  a  faint  and  sickly  smile.  His  whole 
system  was  unnerved.  He  had  known  nothing  like  this 
since  those  fearful  days  at  Tregony,  when  life  itself 
hung  on  a  thread  —  a  word. 

The  two  workmen,  stolid  and  grimy,  went  on  with 
their  usual  indifference.  They  had  nothing  at  stake. 
Stephen  glanced  furtively  at  his  father.  Sitting  op- 
posite there,  before  a  bench  his  son  had  rigged  up  to 
please  him,  straightening  little  bars  of  iron,  trying  them 
in  the  vice,  riveting  them  together,  smiling  in  his  un- 
meaning way,  or  talking  to  himself.  It  gratified  him 
so  to  be  employed.  He  had  a  fancy  he  did  his  son 
good  service,  and  Stephen  encouraged  these  harmless 
vagaries.  He  even  took  a  strange  comfort  in  the  poor, 
worn  life.  It  had  grown  so  near  to  him  that  it  almost 
seemed  something  of  his  own.  There  was  no  point  of 
duty  in  which  he  failed  now.  He  humbly  repented 
those  rebellious  thoughts  when  he  first  learned  that 
God  meant  he  should  take  up  this  heavy  cross.  Daily 
wearing  had  made  it  light.  And  so  we  sometimes  find 
a  sweet  and  strengthening  grace  in  our  bitterest  trials. 

At  noon  he  locked  the  shop  and  walked  home,  with 
his  father  trudging  by  his  side.  .  The  people  he  met  in 
the  street  no  longer  wondered  at  his  tender  care.  An 
old  woman  who  kept  a  stand  on  the  corner  always  gave 
them  a  bright  smile.  "  Such  a  good  son  !  "  and  a  sigh, 


130  STEPHEN   DANE. 

that  was  more  of  commendation  than  grief,  would  usurp 
the  smile. 

"  Well  ?  "  Joe  exclaimed.  It  was  her  usual  style  of 
questioning. 

"We  have  not  heard  yet."  And  then  Stephen  ate 
his  dinner  in  silence.  Joe  had  grown  used  to  his  grave 
ways. 

Back  again.  There  was  so  much  routine  to  life. 
You  did  the  same  things  over  and  over  every  day. 

Adams  ran  in  once,  his  face  full  of  the  wildest 
enthusiasm. 

"Tell  you  what,  Dane,  they're  putting  her  through 
h-a-r-d,"  with  a  lingering  emphasis.  "And  she's  just 
splendid  !  They  can't  find  a  flaw  in  her  if  they  work 
from  now  until  Christmas.  No  fear  of  her  coming 
back  with  amputated  limbs.  Our  child,  Dane  1 " 

A  warmth  and  glow  of  fathership  overspreading  him, 
permeating  every  fibre  of  his  body.  He  was  at  the 
very  summit  of  happiness.  It  was  wife,  child,  and  all 
to  him. 

Then  the  bells  rang  for  six.  A  pleasant  summer 
day  it  was.  Stephen  loitered  about  the  shop.  All 
day  he  had  lived  in  a  dream,  hardly  daring  to  think. 
By  this  time  — 

"Dane,  old  fellow!  we're  rich  men,  both  of  us;" 
and  Adams's  hand  came  down  vigorously  on  the  other's 
shoulder.  "  McKinstry  and  Disbrow  want  you,  straight. 
Why,  we've  half  revolutionized  the  world  of  steam. 


THE    NEW   DAWN.  131 

One  more  discovery  and  we  shall  go  up  to  the  top  of 
the  ladder.  How  grave  you  are  !  Don't  you  believe 
it?  Why,  I  threw  up  my  old  hat — Silas  Adams  — 
forty  and  odd  years  old  !  " 

I  think  some  tears  came  into  Stephen  Dane's  deep 
and  shady  eyes.  Three  years  ago  he  had  been  in 
Thomas  Vennard's  Foundery,  studying  on  this  question 
in  his  vague,  ignorant  way.  Three  years  to-morrow 
since  —  ah,  no  wonder  he  shivered  I 

"Why,  manfilive,  what  ails  you?" 

Stephen  roused  himself. 

"  Come,  they're  waiting." 

He  glanced  at  his  father.  "  I  must  take  him  home 
first." 

"  Nonsense  !  Bring  him  along.  We'll  find  a  quiet 
corner  to  put  him  "  —  impatiently. 

"  No  ;  let  me  take  him  home.     I  shall  feel  better." 

"But  think,  Dane  !  It's  late,  and  they're  all  waiting. 
I  said  I'd  have  you  back  in  a  twinkling.  Come." 

He  took  the  old  man  by  the  arm  almost  roughly. 
The  frightened  eyes  turned  imploringly  to  Stephen, 
who  was  locking  the  door. 

He  soon  released  his  father  from  the  vehement  grasp, 
and  the  three  went  on  silently  together. 

"  One  would  think  Dane  had  some  terrible  secret  on 
his  mind,"  mused  Adams,  a  little  crossly,  to  himself, 
never  dreaming  how  near  he  came  to  the  truth. 

But  Stephen  Dane  brightened  up  amid  the  hearty 
9 


132  STEPHEN   DANE. 

congratulations  of  the  group  of  which  he  had  at  once 
become  the  centre.  For  Adams  had  been  generous. 
There  was  no  meanness  about  the  man. 

"  We  both  worked  on  it,  and  did  our  best ;  but  I  do 
believe  the  main  idea  that  clinched  the  thing  was 
Dane's.  He's  long-headed.  The  world  will  hear  some- 
thing else  of  him  if  I'm  not  mistaken,"  Adams  had  said, 
warmly. 

It  encouraged  Stephen  Dane  to  find  himself  so  much 
at  home  with  these  educated  men.  33y  slow  degrees 
he  was  coming  up  to  his  true  place.  A  sort  of  informal 
talk  this  was  ;  but  they  all  became  better  friends,  and 
adjourned  for  business  the  next  morning.  It  was  really 
true.  Fortune  and  fame  were  within  his  grasp.  Why, 
three  years  ago  he  had  thought  himself  the  most  misera- 
able  and  accursed  man  on  God's  earth  ! 

"Take  me  home,  Stephen,"  said  a  faltering,  broken 
voice  at  his  side ;  and,  turning,  he  beheld  his  father,  the 
dull  gray  of  his  face  deathly  white,  and  his  eyes  fixed 
in  a  frightened  stare. 

"  I  seen  him,  Stephen,  a  standin'  over  there.  Don't 
let  him  take  me  !  Did  he  get  up  out  o'  the  river  ?  " 

He  put  his  strong  arm  around  his  father.  He  drew 
the  shaking  head  down  on  his  shoulder  so  that  the  un- 
thinking lips  might  be  stopped. 

"Is  he  ill?"  some  one  asked. 

"He  is  weak  and  wandering.  I  must  take  him 
home.  I  am  the  only  child  he  ever  had,  and  he 


THE  NEW   DAWN.  133 

clings  to  me.  Poor  father!  I  am  here.  Do  not  be 
afraid." 

Something  in  Stephen  Dane's  mien  and  tones  filled 
them  all  with  involuntary  respect  and  admiration. 
McKinstry  thought  of  his  three  sturdy  boys  growing 
up,  and  wondered  if  one  of  them  would  treat  his  white 
hairs  with  such  filial  tenderness. 

"  Out  o'  the  river,  Stephen.  All  white,  and  dread- 
ful ! " 

Stephen  Dane  drew  a  long  breath  of  dismay. 
Adams  stood  looking  on.  What  if,  at  this  height,  he 
was  to  be  hurled  back  into  degradation  !  He  turned 
blindly.  He  lifted  the  trembling,  cowering  figure, 
shaking  as  if  an  ague  fit  had  seized  him. 

"My  carriage  is  there  in  the  yard,"  said  Disbrow. 
"  I  insist  upon  your  taking  it,  Dane.  Here,  let  me 
call  my  man." 

Stephen  carried  him  out,  stopping  the  betraying 
mouth  with  kisses.  He  had  never  offered  such  a  caress 
before,  but  he  was  in  a  great  bound  of  agony  now. 
The  lips  were  soft  as  a  child's,  the  breath  no  longer 
polluted  with  rum  and  tobacco. 

At  last  they  were  safe.  The  carriage  door  closed 
with  a  sharp  click.  The  driver  there  on  the  front  seat 
would  never  translate  this  pitiful  moan  — 

"  Out  o'  the  river,  Stephen  !  " 

He  carried  his  father  through  the  room,  and  laid  him 
on  the  bed,  making  a  brief  explanation  to  Joe.  Then 


134  STEPHEN   DANE. 

he  administered  a  composing  draught,  and  watched 
until  drowsiness  intervened.  Archy  Dane  still  twitched 
and  quivered  with  some  strong  nervous  shock.  The 
eyes  were  but  half  closed,  the  white  frightfully  visible 
in  contrast  with  his  sunken,  withered  cheeks. 

"Is  he  going  to  be  sick?"  Joe  asked,  in  a  low  tone, 
as  Stephen  sat  down  to  the  supper  table. 

MI  don't  know.  Something  frightened  him,  I 
think." 

"He  looks  dreadfully  —  as  if  he  might  die.  I've' 
never  seen  anybody  die,  Stephen ;  "  and  Joe  shivered. 

"  Don't  think  of  it  now." 

Stephen  was  glad  that  Joe  slept  up  stairs.  For  all 
night  his  father  gave  fitful  starts,  and  cried  out  with 
dim  remembrances  of  the  fatal  deed  that  was  bearing 
heavily  upon  him  again.  The  son  watched  him,  and 
thought,  wildly  and  agonizingly  enough  at  times.  All 
day  a  sort  of  chill  presentiment  had  hung  over  him. 
Perhaps  because  it  was  nearing  this  fatal  season. 

He  had  hoped  that  memory  would  never  return  to  his 
father.  If  life  could  go  out  quietly  —  may  be  there  was 
some  mercy  with  God,  that  man  knew  not  of.  lie 
could  see  the  weakness,  the  temptation,  the  unguarded 
moment ;  and  He  was  pity,  as  well  as  justice. 

The  long  night  wore  away;  for  long  it  seemed,  al- 
though at  midsummer.  The  stars  softened  and  died 
out ;  there  were  faint  opal  streaks  coming  up  in  the  east, 
and  a  quiver  of  soft  gray  light.  He  extinguished  the 


THE    NEW   DAWN.  135 

lamp  and  opened  the  blinds.  A  fragrant  breath  from 
distant  river  and  meadow-land  fluttered  into  the  great 
city  with  dawn.  How  calm  and  peaceful  the  far- 
off  heavens  were !  God  was  so  strong,  so  restful ! 
And  Stephen  Dane  prayed  —  not  this  time  to  have  his 
burden  removed,  but  for  grace  to  bear  it.  God  was 
wiser  than  he,  leading  him  through  paths  he  had  not 
known. 

"  Stephen  !  "     How  unnaturally  clear  the  tone  was  I 

He  went  back  to  the  bed-side. 

"Is  it  night?" 

"No,  morning.     The  sun  is  just  rising." 

"  If  I  could  see  it ! " 

Stephen  raised  him,  and  turned  his  face  towards  the 
window.  The  dull  eyes  rolled  vacantly. 

"  It's  all  dark.     Don't  leave  me,  Stephen." 

The  old,  old  pleading.  A  strange  awe  fell  over 
him. 

"  Stephen,  am  I  sick?     Call  your  mother,  boy." 

"Dear  father,  she  is  dead.  Years  and  years  agone, 
you  know." 

"Dead  !  "  He  caught  fiercely  at  the  word,  grasping 
Stephen's  arm.  "Yes,  he's  dead.  You  needn't  tell 
me.  What  do  you  know?  Did  he  get  up  out  o'  the 
river,  and  tell  you?" 

"No,  no  ;  be  quiet." 

"  Stephen,  what  come  o'  Mr.  Vennard?" 

Should  he  tell  the  truth?  He  was  in  an  agony  of 
doubt. 


136  STEPHEN   DANE. 

"Stephen,"  —  the  voice  was  low  and  awesome,  and 
made  the  blood  curdle  in  his  veins,  —  "  Stephen,  I  mur- 
dered him !  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it.  I  see  him  a 
countin'  his  money.  He  had  so  much,  and  we  was  so 
poor !  He  hadn't  any  business  with  such  a  lot,  while 
other  folks  hadn't  none.  I  thought  I'd  just  knock  him 
over,  an'  make  off  afore  he  could  get  up.  So  I  hit  him 
with  my  fist  one  side  o'  his  head,  for  I  crep'  up  softly 
behind  him.  He  keeled  over  like  a  log,  an'  never 
stirred.  I  took  the  money  an'  went  off,  an'  when  I 
looked  back,  and  see  him  layin'  so  still  and  white,  I 
was  scared.  I  went  to  him  an  ris  him  up.  There 
was  a  great  gash  t'other  side  of  his  head,  where  he'd 
hit  agin'  a  stone.  I  wet  my  han'kercher  and  tried  to 
bring  him  to.  But  it  wan't  no  use.  He  was  dead. 
O,  Stephen ! " 

Stephen  Dane  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  His  lips 
were  dry.  His  heart  almost  stood  still. 

"I  'gin  an  awful  scream.  I  couldn't  help  it.  If  the 
money  would  a'  brought  him  back,  he  might  a'  had  it 
for  all  me.  I  didn't  know  what  to  do,  I  was  so 
frightened.  I  dragged  him  to  the  river,  and  tumbled 
him  in.  And  he's  come  up  agin',  Stephen.  Take  me 
away  where  he'll  never  find  me." 

"Can  you  listen  to  me,  father?"  Stephen's  voice 
was  strong  and  distinct. 

w  You'll  keep  me  safe !  You  won't  let  him  have 
me  ?  "  with  quivering  terror  in  the  faintest  gesture. 


THE    NEW    DAWN.  137 

"  Yes,  safe.  Now  listen."  And  then  Stephen  went 
briefly  and  clearly  over  the  particulars  of  that  terrible 
event,  — the  inquest,  Forbes's  arrest  and  acquittal,  their 
removal  from  Tregony,  —  and  assured  him  again  and 
'again  of  his  safety. 

"  Seems  as  if  I'd  been  in  a  dream.  So,  they  buried 
him,  put  him  in  the  ground.  He  can't  get  up.  But 
I  didn't  mean  to,  Stephen,  God  knows.  And  if  I  could 
a'  given  my  life  for  his'n,  to  bring  him  back  —  What  '11 
God  say?" 

O,  it  was  coming  near.  That  fateful  question  — 
what  could  he  answer  ! 

"I  never  touched  the  money.  I  lost  it  somewhere  — 
I  forget.  And  I  didn't  mean  to  kill  him.  Tell  it  to 
God,  Stephen.  You've  been  a  good  boy,  an'  He'll 
hear  you.  Tell  him  how  sorry  I  was —  It's  so 
dark.  Where  is  He,  Stephen?" 

In  his  agony  of  tender  love^  Stephen  prayed  —  that 
God  would  forgive  this  poor  soul  as  he  forgave  the 
thief  upon  the  cross.  That  out  of  his  infinite  pity  and 
boundless  love,  he  would  pardon  the  deed  that  had  no 
malice  in  it  or  murderous  intention.  That  he  would 
wash  the  guilty  soul  in  his  own  precious  blood,  shed  for 
all  sinners. 

"  Stephen  !  "  the  clutch  was  deathly  in  its  intensity — 
"  did  He  hear  you  ?  Mother  taught  me  a  prayer  long 
ago — I  forget — I  can't  see  you — get  a  light,  Stephen  ! 
Kiss  me.  She  used  to." 


138  STEPHEN   DANE. 

He  bent  down  in  reverence.     The  lips  were  cold. 

"I  can't  remember — .  Hold  me  by  the  hand.  Is 
it  very  far,  Stephen  ?  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it.  God 
forgive  me  !  I  —  didn't  —  mean  —  " 

The  thin  fingers  relaxed  their  grasp.  The  jaw  fell. 
There  was  a  spasmodic  convulsion,  and  all  was  still. 

Stephen  Dane  knelt  by  the  bed-side  and  prayed. 
Joe  found  him  there  when  she  came  down,  and  she 
knew  by  the  first  glimpse  of  his  face  that  her  uncle 
was  dead. 

Of  the  men  whom  Stephen  had  met  during  the  last 
year,  Mr.  McKinstry  respected  his  grief  the  most. 
The  little  scene  he  had  witnessed  had  touched  him  to 
the  heart.  He  offered  a  pretty  plot  in  Laurel  Hill  for 
the  interment,  and  showed  his  sympathy  in  many 
delicate  ways.  That  Stephen  should  be  so  prostrated 
by  grief,  scarcely  surprised  him. 

And  yet  I  cannot  say  that  Stephen  sorrowed  regret- 
fully, if  deeply.  He  missed  his  father  daily,  hourly. 
He  had  been  such  a  constant  charge,  such  a  child  in  all 
things,  that  the  feeling  of  loneliness  was  very  great. 
He  hardly  knew,  until  now,  how  much  he  had  loved 
him. 

But  it  also  brought  a  sense  of  relief  and  freedom. 
He  could  scarcely  believe  the  shadowy  dread  had  fallen 
off,  that  he  was  no  longer  walking  on  deceitful  ground, 
where  an  earthquake  might  yawn  at  any  moment. 
That  awful  secret  was  safe  forevermore. 


THE   NEW   DAWN.  139 

And  it  was  comforting  to  know  that,  although  his 
father's  hand  was  stained  with  crime,  it  was  not  so 
utterly  foul  and  black.  He  had  not  intended  murder. 
At  that  fatal  moment  he  would  have  given  his  own  life. 
Perhaps  God  remembered  that  in  the  country  whither 
he  had  gone. 

To  Stephen  there  came  a  great  change  after  this. 
Holding  their  patent  in  their  own  hands,  both  he  and 
Adams  derived  from  it  a  considerable  income.  The 
little  shop  was  given  up.  Adams  received  a  very  ad- 
vantageous offer  from  New  York,  and  he  would  fain 
have  persuaded  Stephen  to  join  him  ;  but  McKinstry,  at 
the  head  of  a  flourishing  business  himself,  induced  the 
young  man  to  remain.  Besides,  he  was  attached  to  the 
place.  Some  strange,  yearning  affection  held  him  near 
the  spot  where  his  father  was  sleeping  peacefully ;  the 
poor,  weak,  troublous  soul  forever  at  rest. 

And  now  Stephen  Dane  had  arrived  at  that  point  of 
success  where  everything  turns  into  gold.  He  bought 
a  pretty  cottage,  and  furnished  it  to  his  liking,  install- 
ing Joe  as  mistress,  though  she  longed  for  another  and 
dearer  title.  To  her  he  was  utterly  incomprehensible. 
She  felt  afraid  of  him  in  a  most  peculiar  manner,  and 
yet  her  love  grew  to  be  the  mastering  thought  of  her 
existence. 

The  first  money  that  Stephen  felt  he  could  call  his, 
he  invested,  principal  and  interest,  for  Hope  Ven- 
nard.  The  debt  had  always  been  sacred  to  him.  He 


140  STEPHEN   DANE. 

had  heard  that  Mrs.  Forsyth,  shortly  after  her  mar- 
riage, had  gone  to  Europe.  Adams  had  incidentally 
spoken  of  their  return  to  New  York,  and  the  rumor 
that  Mr.  Forsyth  had  dissipated  the  greater  part  of  his 
wife's  fortune.  A  wild  desire  to  see  the  little  girl 
haunted  Stephen.  Fate  had  in  some  sense  made  him 
her  protector,  if  she  needed  one.  And  so,  five  years 
after  that  terrible  summer,  with  a  new  life  opening  be- 
fore him,  he  resolved  to  find  Hope  Vennard,  and  hence- 
forth keep  watch  over  her. 


HOPE.  141 


vni. 

HOPE. 

SILAS  ADAMS,  in  his  prosperity,  had  taken  to 
himself  a  wife.  Heretofore  he  had  professed  to 
hold  matrimony  somewhat  in  contempt.  Perhaps  his 
being  well  able  to  afford  such  a  luxury  now  softened 
his  views.  And  he  had  chosen,  as  men  of  that  age 
often  do,  a  little,  sunny-haired,  eager,  impulsive  being, 
who  would  never  outgrow  her  childhood,  and  whose 
strongest  charm  lay  in  her  ardent  love  for  her  husband. 
She  amused  and  interested  Stephen  Dane  from  the  fact 
of  her  being  so  unlike  any  woman  he  had  ever  met  before. 

Adams  had  insisted  upon  his  being  domesticated 
with  them  during  his  stay  in  New  York.  No  two 
women  ever  had  more  talking  to  do.  Tregony,  the 
old  life  together  in  Philadelphia,  their  success,  and  the 
many  improvements  since.  Then  there  was  so  much 
to  see  in  the  city.  At  times  Stephen  felt  confused  and 
wearied  with  the  never-ending  variety. 

He  had  learned,  without  any  questions,  all  that 
Adams  knew  of  Mrs.  Yennard,  now  Mrs.  Forsyth. 


142  STEPHEN  DANE. 

Mr.  Forsyth  had  proved  a  dissipated  spendthrift.  He 
had  wasted  nearly  all  his  wife's  property. 

"It's  a  shame,"  Adams  said.  "  So  much  as  she  must 
have  had  from  her  father  !  But,  Dane,  I  sometimes 
think  how  Vennard  worked,  and  ground  his  men  to  the 
lowest  ebb,  all  for  what?  That  some  one  else  might 
fool  away  the  money.  I'd  like  to  know  how  the  little 
girl  fared  between  them.  I  thought  I  would  hunt  them 
up,  just  out  of  curiosity ;  but  I  lost  track,  and  haven't 
found  the  time,  or  the  interest  either,  for  that  matter. 
One  cannot  look  after  everybody." 

With  Stephen  it  was  a  sacred  duty.  Through  his 
father's  agency  Hope  had  been  deprived  of  her  natural 
protector ;  and  now,  if  she  was  in  any  need,  he  must 
surely  supply  the  place.  He  said  nothing  of  his  inten- 
tions to  Adams,  however ;  it  was  too  sore  a  subject 
with  him  for  discussion.  But  in  his  daily  walks,  by 
the  aid  of  a  directory,  he  managed  to  find  most  of  the 
Forsyths  in  the  city.  Of  several  he  made  inquiries. 
Once,  indeed,  he  fancied  he  had  gained  a  clew.  But 
this  Forsyth  had  disappeared  with  a  second-rate  actress, 
and  of  the  wife  he  could  find  no  trace. 

His  stay  drew  to  a  close.  Already  it  had  exceeded 
his  first  limit.  And  yet  he  hated  to  leave  the  place 
without  having  made  the  slightest  discovery.  One  hope 
was  still  left  him  :  from  the  Ellicotts  in  Philadelphia, 
distant  connections,  he  might  learn  something  of  Mrs. 
Forsyth. 


HOPE.  143 

One  warm  October  afternoon  he  had  been  rambling 
through  the  precincts  east  of  City  Hall,  haunting  old 
second-hand  bookstalls,  and  discovering  one  or  two 
curious  pictures,  of  some  far-back  date.  He  hardly 
knew  how  the  time  had  gone,  until  he  saw  throngs  of 
men  and  boys  hurrying  homeward.  Not  caring  to  be 
jostled  about  by  the  crowd,  he  turned  into  a  by-street 
and  pursued  his  way  leisurely. 

It  became  evident,  ere  long,  that  he  had  taken  the 
wrong  direction,  for  here  he  was  coming  out  to  the 
river.  A  damp,  dirty  smell  pervaded  the  air,  and 
groups  of  sharp-eyed,  half-dressed  children  beset  him. 
Sturdy  little  beggars,  with  their  whining  plea  of,  "Only 
one  penny  ;  "  or,  if  he  listened,  a  more  extended  story 
of  the  sick  mother  or  father,  or  household  of  helpless 
children.  Many  of  them  little  girls,  too.  What  if  this 
should  ever  be  Hope's  fate?  Why  did  he  think  of  it? 
Surely  it  could  not  come  to  that ! 

She  was  twelve  now.  Quite  a  large  girl,  perhaps. 
And  yet  he  could  never  see  her  as  otherwise  than  the 
little  child  he  had  held  in  his  arms.  Her  soft,  beautiful 
hair,  her  pleading  eyes,  her  sweet  voice,  — how  they  all 
haunted  him  !  And  that  indefinable  grace  about  her, 
that  suggestion  of  fragrance  :  to  think  of  her  in  con- 
nection with  these  wretches  ! 

He  wandei-ed  on,  seeming  to  face  the  river  at  every 
other  turn.  Gray  evening  had  begun  to  fall.  No  ten- 
der sunset  tints  to  penetrate  these  close,  narrow  streets. 


144  STEPHEN   DANE. 

Harsh,  discordant  voices,  shrill  laughs  that  jarred  upon 
his  soul.  A  homesick  longing  stole  over  his  heart. 
What  was  this?  Rutgers  Street  —  cleaner  and  more 
quiet.  He  wanted  to  go  towards  the  north,  somewhere  ; 
so  he  stood  thinking. 

"If  you  please,  sir  — "  said  a  soft,  hesitating  voice 
at  his  side. 

He  turned,  but  could  not  see  her  face  :  it  was  hidden 
by  her  hat. 

"Mother  is  sick,  and  we  haven't  anything  to  eat." 

The  old  story.  He  had  not  given  to  the  noisy  beg- 
gars down  yonder ;  so  he  drew  some  bits  of  change  from 
his  pocket,  and  thrust  them  in  her  hand. 

"  Thank  you ;  "  and  she  was  gone.  He  walked  on  to 
the  corner,  and  then  paused.  A  man  was  lighting  the 
street  lamp  ;  should  he  ask  him  the  direction  ? 

"Sir!" 

He  glanced  around.  The  same  little  girl  —  he  could 
have  told  her  voice.  And  now  he  remarked  the  strag- 
gling golden  curls. 

"  You  gave  me  a  gold  piece.  I  thought  may  be  it  was 
a  mistake,  and  ran  back  as  fast  as  I  could.  There  was 
a  good  deal  besides." 

He  caught  the  child  and  drew  her  towards  the  lamp. 
He  pushed  back  her  hat,  and  scanned  her  face  eagerly. 
Thin  and  pale,  with  a  pinched,  forlorn  look,  and  yet  a 
certain  air  of  native  refinement. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 


HOPE.  145 

"  O,  please,  sir,  let  me  go.  I  never  begged  before. 
But  there  was  nothing  in  the  house,  and  mother  was  so 
hungry  !  I  didn't  mind  for  myself." 

She  was  crying  now,  partly  with  fright,  and  partly 
because  the  grasp  on  her  arm  really  hurt  her. 

"  Tell  me  your  name  !  "  He  did  not  know  how  excited 
his  own  voice  was.  For  somehow  this  little  face  touched 
him  strangely. 

"HopeForsyth." 

"Hope  Vennard,  you  mean."  He  must  always  have 
her  by  that  old  name.  He  hated  the  Forsyth.  It  had 
worked  her  cruel  wrong  if  it  had  reduced  her  to  this. 

She  looked  at  him  with  wild,  startled  eyes. 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?     Where  is  your  mother  ?  " 

"Just  down  here." 

"Take  me  there." 

Pie  placed  his  arm  around  her  gently  enough  now. 
But  he  wanted  to  clasp  her  to  his  heart.  Little  Hope 
Vennard  given  back  to  him,  to  him  alone  ! 

They  turned  up  a  narrow  court.  He  knew  it  was 
filthy,  because  he  stepped  into  a  pool  of  slimy  water. 

She  paused  at  the  door.  w  It's  up  stairs.  If  you'll 
wait  until  I  get  a  light." 

The  same  clear,  delicate  intonation  that  had  struck 
him  so  oddly  in  the  child. 

"Never  mind.  I  can  find  my  way."  But  he  held 
her  tightly  by  the  hand. 


146  STEPHEN    DANE. 

Up  two  flights  of  stairs.  Here,  a  smell  of  salt  fish ; 
there,  beefsteak  and  onions.  A  crying  baby  ;  a  woman 
scolding;  a  man  singing  in  a  drunken,  maudlin  fashion. 
But  on  this  floor  it  was  quieter. 

She  went  in  and  lighted  a  candle.  By  the  dim  yellow 
ray  he  surveyed  the  room.  Not  positively  barren,  but 
feeling  chill,  and  looking  uncomfortable. 

"  A  gentleman,  mamma.     He  gave  me  some  money." 

There  was  an  unconscious  grace  in  this  simple  intro- 
duction. 

"  Raise  me  up,  Hope.  I  never  sent  the  child  out  to 
beg  before.  We've  been  used  to  plenty  all  our  lives, 
until  now  ;  I  never  thought  to  die  here  like  a  dog  !  " 

The  voice  was  weak  and  fretful,  breaking  down  into  a 
cough.  She  was  frightfully  emaciated,  the  eyes  sunken, 
the  lips  livid,  the  hands  skeleton-like,  and  trembling. 

"I  came  to  see  if  I  could  be  of  any  assistance  to  you," 
Stephen  Dane  said,  when  he  had  recovered  a  little  from 
his  surprise. 

"  I  never  thought  to  ask  it  from  any  one.  We  had 
plenty  —  didn't  we  Hope  ?  —  until  that  villain  —  " 

"  Hush,  dear ;  it  makes  you  cough." 

"You  want  a  fire,"  Stephen  began.  "These  autumn 
nights  are  chilly.  Are  there  any  stores  near  by  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  had  better  go,"  and  Hope  laid  her  mother 
down.  "  I  shall  find  them  sooner.  I  won't  be  gone  but 
a  moment." 


HOPE.  147 

Stephen  put  the  gold  piece  in  her  hand  again.  "  Get 
everything  you  can  think  of,"  he  said. 

w  I'm  sure  you're  very  kind,  sir.  But  it's  hard  to 
have  to  come  to  charity,  when  one  has  had  every  luxury 
of  one's  own.  My  father  was  very  rich.  So  was  my 
first  husband.  Hope  was  his  child,  but  I'm  sure  I've 
been  a  mother  to  her.  Only  if  I  hadn't  let  him  get  hold 
of  her  money.  He  was  a  false,  black-hearted  villain." 

"  Don't  talk."  She  was  coughing  fearfully  now,  and 
Stephen  noticed  that  the  handkerchief  she  held  to  her 
mouth  was  saturated  with  blood. 

"Yes.  I  want  to  tell  you.  I  married  again — a 
second  cousin  of  my  own.  He  was  Hope's  guardian. 
I  thought  he  loved  me  so.  But  he  only  wanted  the 
money.  And  when  that  was  gone,  he  went  off  with  an 
actress,  a  shameless  hussy !  and  left  us  here  to  starve. 
I've  been  ailing  a  long  while.  As  much  a  broken  heart, 
as  anything." 

Her  tone  was  querulous  and  bitter.  Stephen  Dane 
had  never  been  prepossessed  in  her  favor  when  she  was 
Miss  Ellicott.  Going  back  to  those  crude  perceptions, 
he  had  the  key  to  the  woman's  whole  character.  Weak, 
vain,  and  self-indulgent,  with  no  real  strength  or  forti- 
tude, no  faculty  of  governing  circumstances. 

"  How  long  since  your  husband  went  away  ? "  he 
asked  presently. 

"  In  July.  He  took  about  a  thousand  dollars.  It 
10 


148  STEPHEN  DAJSTE. 

was  Hope's  money.  I  didn't  mean  that  he  should  have 
it,  but  he  threatened  to  kill  us  both.  He  was  so  in- 
fatuated with  that  woman  !  And  he  took  my  diamonds  ! 
I  sold  my  jewelry  and  my  dresses  by  degrees.  We 
were  forced  to  come  here  at  last ;  and  now  all  is  gone. 
There  was  nothing  more  to  sell.  I  hoped  I  should  die 
before  it  came  to  this.  Poor  Hope  !  She  never  begged 
before  1 " 

The  child  entered  at  this  moment,  her  little  arms 
full.  She  built  a  fire  upon  the  hearth ;  snuffed  the 
candle  —  and  Stephen  noticed  in  a  vague  way  how  the 
tallow  had  made  a  little  roll  at  one  side.  A  winding- 
sheet,  superstitious  Joe  would  have  said.  Well,  one 
would  soon  be  needed. 

"  Can't  I  help  you  ?  "  said  Stephen,  coming  up  to  Plope 
in  an  awkward  way. 

"  Get  me  something  to  eat,  Hope,"  exclaimed  the 
invalid,  impatiently.  "  It's  a  hard  thing  to  starve." 

Stephen  Had  looked  after  his  father  so  long  that  he 
was  at  home  in  this  department.  When  they  had  made 
some  broth  and  administered  it  to  Mrs.  Forsyth,  he 
remarked  that  Hope  had  purchased  but  sparingly.  So 
he  took  up  his  hat. 

"  Are  you  going  ?  "  and  Hope's  voice  was  full  of  vague 
sadness. 

"  Only  to  buy  some  more  food,  and  see  a  physician. 
I  will  come  back  soon." 


HOPE.  149 

Hope  held  the  candle  at  the  stairway.  Once  he 
glanced  back  at  those  entreating  eyes.  His  little  Hope  I 
The  more  his  because  she  was  so  friendless  and  forlorn. 

He  returned  laden  with  delicacies,  and  accompanied 
by  a  physician.  The  famished  woman,  in  that  extreme 
hunger  which  sometimes  precedes  consumptive  dissolu- 
tion, was  begging  eagerly  for  something  to  eat. 

"Let  her  have  anything  that  she  wants,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  Her  pulse  is  very  low.  She  cannot  last  but  a 
little  while." 

"How  long?" 

w  Two  or  three  days  at  the  utmost.  She  may  drop 
off  at  any  moment.  This  mixture  will  alleviate  her 
cough  —  that  is  all  I  can  do." 

Hope  and  Stephen  were  left  alone  with  the  dying 
woman,  though  to  both  she  looked  much  improved. 
Her  voice  grew  stronger,  and  she  would  talk.  She 
seemed  to  revel  in  that  old  time  of  luxury  and  ease. 
Her  weak  mind,  even  at  the  last,  could  not  endure  that 
this  stranger  should  remain  in  ignorance  of  her  true 
station.  Of  Mr.  Forsyth  she  spoke  with  all  the  bitter- 
ness her  feeble  nature  could  command.  And  yet  it  was 
evident  his  sway  over  her  had  been  complete.  A  hard 
master  and  a  tyrant  he  had  proved,  a  cruel,  sensual 
man. 

"  I  couldn't  help  his  getting  Hope's  money,"  she  said, 
in  her  weak,  pitiful  defence.  w  He  was  her  guardian. 


150  STEPHEN  DANE. 

I  tried  to  do  my  best.  I  have  been  good  to  you,  Hope 
—  haven't  I?" 

te  Yes,"  said  Hope,  kissing  the  fevered  brow  with  her 
cool  lips.  Which  meant  she  had  not  beaten  or  other- 
wise maltreated  her.  But,  for  all  motherly  tenderness 
or  sympathy,  the  child  might  as  well  have  been  utterly 
friendless. 

"I'm  sure  I  meant  it  all  for  the  best,"  in  a  whining 
tone.  "  I  don't  know  what  the  poor  child  will  do  when 
I'm  gone.  Her  father  had  some  friends  somewhere  — 
I've  forgotten." 

"  She  shall  be  cared  for."  He  turned  the  child 
around  so  that  she  faced  him.  "Will  you  trust  me, 
Hope?  "he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  questioningly.  He  was  glad  there 
was  nothing  about  her  to  remind  him  of  her  father. 

"  Will  you  ?  "     His  voice  trembled  with  emotion. 

"Yes."     She  placed  one  hand  in  his. 

Mrs.  Forsyth's  mind  began  to  wander  a  little.  But 
it  was  her  second  husband  that  troubled  her  thoughts. 
Of  Mr.  Vennard  she  never  spoke  at  all.  No  one  could 
have  been  more  entirely  forgotten.  But  when  he 
married  Lucy  Ellicott,  he  did  not  desire  any  strong  or 
forcible  points  of  character.  He  had  not  considered  his 
child's  welfare  —  only  his  own  insatiable  desire  for 
wealth. 

Stephen  felt  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  go  away 


HOPE.  151 

and  leave  Hope  alone  with  her  mother.  When  this 
fever  strength  was  spent,  the  last  great  change  might 
come.  Presently  she  grew  drowsy,  and  fell  into  snatches 
of  slumber,  broken  by  incoherent  mutterings.  He  drew 
his  chair  nearer  the  bed,  and  took  Hope  upon  his  knee. 
The  poor,  tired  girl  yielded  to  the  sense  of  warmth,  and 
relief  from  hunger,  and  leaned  against  the  strong  arm 
passed  around  her.  In  a  few  moments  she  was  asleep. 

Stephen  watched  her  with  peculiar  sensations.  An 
awe  and  tenderness,  a  strong  feeling  of  duty,  a  devout 
thankfulness  that  he  had  found  her,  when  she  so  sorely 
needed  a  friend,  mingled  with  a  strange  delight  that 
proceeded  from  none  of  these.  He  could  not  analyze 
this ;  indeed,  he  did  not  try.  He  was  content  with  the 
present,  and  neither  burdened  himself  with  the  future 
and  dim  dreams  of  what  might  come,  nor  brooded  over 
an  unalterable  past. 

Mrs.  Forsyth  stirred  again.  "  Hope,"  she  exclaimed, 
in  sick  impatience,  "  I'm  hungry  !  I  do  believe,  child, 
you'd  see  me  lie  here  and  starve." 

In  the  sweet  land  whither  Hope  had  gone,  she  heard 
not  the  voice.  Stephen  touched  her  shoulder  gently. 

"  O  !  "     She  gave  a  long  sigh. 

"Your  mother  needs  something,  Hope." 

She  was  on  her  feet  now,  her  senses  all  alert,  her 
eyes  wide  open.  Mrs.  Forsyth  moved  at  the  sound  of 
the  strange  voice. 


152  STEPHEN  DANE. 

"O,"  she  said,  in  a  vague  way,  "I  remember.  You 
came  with  Hope.  I'm  hungry,  child."  And  Stephen 
smiled  to  himself,  remarking  how  much  more  gentle  the 
tone  was. 

Hope  obeyed  her  mother's  behest.  The  dying  eyes 
wandered  with  a  restless,  glassy  stare,  but  she  took 
the  food  as  if  indeed  famishing. 

"  If  you  must  go  —  "  she  said  at  length,  looking  at 
Stephen. 

"  No,  it  is  not  safe  for  you  to  be  left  alone.  I  will 
remain  all  night." 

"You  are  very  kind.  I  never  expected  to  ask  so 
much  of  strangers,  I'm  sure.  I  suppose  I  cannot  last 
much  longer.  I  do  not  care.  I  have  nothing  to  live 
for.  I  couldn't  even  do  Hope  any  good.  It  was  shame- 
ful in  him  to  treat  me  so,  when  I  let  him  take  everything  ! 
To  die  here  like  a  dog,  while  he  is  flaunting  off  with 
that  miserable  thing!  I  hope  he'll  leave  her  in  just 
such  distress.  He's  a  mean,  selfish  brute !  O,  if  I'd 
never  married  trim  1  We  would  be  rich  now,  Hope, 
living  in  luxury,  with  servants  to  wait  upon  us.  O 
Heaven  I  how  bitter  it  is  !  " 

Her  voice  died  away  in  moans.  Hope  lighted  another 
candle,  and  stirred  the  fire.  Then  she  came  back,  and 
smoothed  the  sufferer's  brow  until  she  fell  into  another 
doze.  Stephen  held  out  his  arms.  She  nestled  in  the 
tender  clasp  again.  The  city  clocks  were  striking  twelve. 


HOPE.  153 

Presently  Hope  fell  asleep.  Stephen  watched  and 
thought.  This  human  soul,  weak  and  helpless,  drifting 
out  to  the  broad  ocean  of  eternity !  What  work,  or 
what  good,  had  it  ever  done  in  the  world  ?  And  yet, 
God  kept  a  place  for  every  one.  He  took  the  tangled 
threads  in  His  hands,  and  made  out  of  the  confused 
mass  a  shapely  web.  Some  day  all  the  mysteries  would 
be  explained  —  why  one  was  weak  and  easily  tempted, 
why  another  trode  in  thorny  paths,  or  was  left  to  work 
blindly,  groping  along  with  many  doubts  and  fears,  and 
why  some  were  blessed  beyond  compare  with  all  that 
makes  life  desirable  —  love,  home,  and  wealth.  No 
trials  —  few  cares.  It  was  well  for  human  faith  that 
there  were  some  happy  souls. 

Once  before  he  had  watched  with  the  dying.  All  the 
long  night!  He  shivered,  thinking  of  it.  If — how 
strangely  we  can  carry  back  our  reasoning  !  —  if  Thomas 
Vennard  had  been  stunned  that  summer  day,  as  his 
assailant  meant,  or  if  the  blow  had  missed  its  aim, 
what  then  ?  He  and  his  father  would  have  been  hunted 
to  the  utmost  verge.  Vennard  was  relentless  and 
vindictive.  Instead  —  who  had  brought  all  this  about? 
He  was  the  prosperous  man.  He  had  succeeded  over 
the  ruins  of  another's  life,  as  one  might  say.  Where 
God's  direct  agency  came  in,  was  too  awful  a  subject  for 
his  vain  questioning.  He  had  been  given  a  sacred  duty 
—  that  was  enough  for  him  now. 


154  STEPHEN   DANE. 

The  candle  flared  out  its  ghostly  yellow  light.  The 
sick  woman  tossed  uneasily,  murmured  broken  sentences, 
and  occasionally  roused  to  ask  for  a  drink.  Stephen 
gave  it  to  her  with  the  one  hand  at  liberty.  He  bathed 
her  brow  with  fragrant  water,  and  administered  from 
time  to  time  the  cordial  the  physician  had  left.  The 
fire  burned  out  —  there  was  no  more  wood  to  replenish 
it.  The  remnant  of  the  candle  fell  into  a  pool  of  its 
own  grease,  and  sputtered  out  a  farewell.  Through  the 
window  came  a  faint  glimmer  of  dawn,  softening  from 
gray  to  pink,  from  pink  to  crimson  and  gold.  The  air 
of  the  room  grew  chilly,  and  Stephen  strained  Hope 
close  to  his  heart. 

"  I've  had  such  a  nice  sleep  ! "  she  exclaimed  at  length, 
opening  her  lovely  eyes,  just  as  a  faint  streak  of  sunshine 
stole  in  the  window.  "And,  O,  it's  morning!  Did 
you  hold  me  all  night  ?  "  and  a  conscious  color  fluttered 
up  in  her  face.  "  You  must  be  very,  very  tired  I  " 

Stephen  felt  stiff  and  cramped  from  the  awkward 
position,  but  hardly  fatigued. 

"  You  have  been  so  kind  !  "  Her  breath  came  with  a 
sigh.  "I  wonder — "  But  that  was  cut  short  by  Mrs. 
Forsyth's  awakening. 

"  Mamma,  dearest,"  and  Hope  bent  to  kiss  her. 

"  I'm  so  much  better,  Hope  I  I  never  thought  to  live 
the  night  through.  I  am  so  easy  I  no  pain,  and  very 


HOPE.  155 

little  coughing.  If  we  were  still  rich,  I  should  want  to 
get  well ;  but  it's  of  no  use." 

A  greenish  pallor  had  overspread  her  face,  and  her 
eyes  were  frightfully  sunken.  Stephen  noted  these  sure 
signs  of  dissolution. 

Hope  began  to  bustle  about  the  room. 

"  I'll  go  for  some  wood,"  Stephen  said. 

"I'm  sure  we're  very  grateful  to  you,"  was  Mrs. 
Forsyth's  comment.  "A  perfect  stranger,  too  —  we 
don't  even  know  your  name." 

"Stephen  Dane,"  he  answered. 

Hope  was  bending  over  the  ashes,  and  did  not  even 
glance  up.  If  Lucy  Ellicott  had  ever  heard  any  such 
name,  she  had  forgotten  it  now. 

He  went  for  the  wood,  and  purchased  a  few  luxuries 
for  breakfast.  Hope  was  a  handy  little  housekeeper, 
swift,  noiseless,  and  patient.  How  often  she  must  have 
suffered  from  Mrs.  Forsyth's  unreasoning  whims  and 
fretful  moods ! 

"I  think,"  he  began,  presently,  "  that  I  must  return 
to  my  friends  and  give  some  account  of  myself.  You 
will  not  mind  being  left  alone  an  hour  or  two?" 

"  O,  no.     And  mamma  is  so  much  better  !  " 

He  glanced  furtively  at  the  bed.  "  You  have  neigh- 
bors you  can  call  on  in  an  emergency  ?  " 

"  We  haven't  made  friends  with  any  of  them,"  Hope 


156  STEPHEN   DANE. 

replied,  with  downcast  eyes.  "  And  they  think  us 
proud." 

"Any  one  will  come  in  time  of  need,"  he  said, 
thoughtfully.  "I  shall  not  be  gone  long." 

He  bade  Mrs.  Forsyth  a  cheerful  good  morning. 
The  fresh,  keen  air  was  inspiriting  to  him.  Still,  he 
hurried  along,  impelled  by  some  vague  sense  of  danger. 

He  found  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Adams  in  a  state  of  conster- 
nation, but  he  lost  no  time  in  explaining  the  cause  of  his 
absence.  They  both  listened  in  astonishment. 

"  To  think  that  you  should  have  met  the  child  in  such 
a  plight !  Actually  begging  !  I  wonder  that  Vennard 
did  not  rise  out  of  his  grave  and  haunt  the  villain  who 
brought  them  to  this.  Yes,  let  us  go  immediately. 
Pet,"  to  Mrs.  Adams,  "  get  your  bonnet." 

"But  Mr.  Dane  must  have  some  breakfast.  After 
watching  all  night,  too  !  " 

"  I  had  some,  thank  you." 

"It  could  have  been  hardly  worth  the  eating.  Let 
me  make  you  a  cup  of  fresh  coffee." 

"  No,  I  must  return  as  soon  as  possible." 

But  "  Pet "  dallied  after  the  fashion  of  women.  She 
hafl  her  dress  to  change,  orders  to  give  for  dinner,  and 
a  dozen  other  little  matters  to  take  up  her  time.  Stephen 
paced  the  sitting-room  and  talked  to  his  friend.  At 
last  they  were  started. 

Mrs.  Adams  held  her  breath  with  a  strange  awe  and 


HOPE.  157 

pity  as  they  mounted  the  dirty  steps.  Stephen  rapped 
lightly  at  the  door. 

There  was  no  answer,  so  he  opened  it  and  walked  in, 
leaving  them  to  follow.  His  first  glance  was  at  the 
bed.  There  lay  Mrs.  Forsyth,  the  eyes  staring  wide, 
but  all  meaning  gone  from  them  —  the  under  jaw 
dropped  down,  and  a  small  purple  thread  of  blood 
issuing  from  the  mouth. 

"O  ! "  Hope  raised  herself  from  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
where  she  had  been  striving  to  hide  from  the  fearful 
sight.  Her  eyes  were  tearless,  her  face  white  and 
frightened. 

"Is  she  dead?     O,  mamma  !  mamma  !  " 

Stephen  placed  his  hand  on  the  heart.  It  had  stopped 
beyond  a  peradventure.  Then  he  caught  Hope  as  she 
was  about  to  throw  herself  beside  the  dead  body. 

"O,"  she  said,  brokenly,  with  a  great,  dry  sob,  "she 
did  love  me,  and  I  loved  her.  It  is  so  terrible  to  be 
all  alone!" 

"You  will  never  be  alone  again."  Stephen's  lips 
were  close  to  her  ear,  his  strong  arms  around  her. 

"  But  you  can't  love  me —  " 

"  Yes,  I  can  love  you.  I  do  love  you."  His  voice 
came  through  waves  of  suppressed  feeling. 

She  buried  her  face  on  the  great,  true  heart,  that  was 
to  be  hers  forevermore. 

By  this  time  Mrs.   Adams  had  advanced  to  the  bed. 


158  STEPHEN   DANE. 

"O!"  she  exclaimed,  "we  are  too  late.  Was  this 
little  thing  all  alone  with  her  mother,  when  — " 

Her  voice  recalled  both  Stephen  and  Hope.  One  is 
often  alone  with  joy,  but  there  are  so  many  events  con- 
nected with  grief  that  bring  us  back  to  every-day  life. 
Wisely  ordered  by  a  mind  farther-reaching  than  ours. 

Stephen  said,  briefly,  "How  long  ago?" 

"  I  don't  know."  There  was  a  dreary  grief  in  Hope's 
eyes.  "  She  was  talking,  and  she  seemed  so  strong ! 
Then  she  began  to  cough." 

Stephen  and  Adams  consulted  together.  Then  the 
former  started  in  pursuit  of  some  kindly  neighbor,  while 
Adams  went  for  an  undertaker.  Mrs.  Adams  tried 
to  comfort  Hope.  The  child  listened  —  that  was  all. 
There  was  but  one  voice  that  had  power  to  soothe 
her. 

On  Stephen's  return  he  asked  Hope  to  put  on  her 
hat  and  shawl,  and  go  with  him. 

"  Mamma?"     Her  pale  lips  quivered. 

"You  will  see  her  again  presently.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Adams  will  attend  to  all  that  is  necessary." 

Hope  did  his  bidding.  Once  in  the  street,  he  took 
her  by  the  hand,  and  led  her  she  knew  not  whither. 
Only  at  last  they  came  to  a  pretty  house,  and,  being 
admitted  by  the  servant,  he  led  her  into  the  sitting- 
room. 

"Are  you  tired?"  he  asked. 


HOPE.  159 

"No,  only — "  and  then  her  eyes  slowly  filled  with 
tears. 

"This  is  Mr.  Adams's  house.  Mamma  will  be  sent 
up  here,  and  kept  until  she  is  buried.  Afterwards  I  am 
going  to  take  you  home  with  me,  to  Philadelphia,  if  you 
will  go  ?  " 

"  I  did  have  some  relatives  there,  but  I  believe  they 
are  dead,"  she  said,  absently. 

"  I  don't  want  to  find  any  friend  or  relative.  I  mean 
to  keep  you.  It  is  a  debt  I  owe.  If  you  can  trust 
me  —  " 

The  look  said,  "If  not  you,  who  then  on  the  wide 
earth  ?  "  But  presently,  with  a  little  flush  of  delicacy, 
she  made  answer,  — 

"Do  you  know  I  am  very  poor?  Papa  Forsyth 
spent  everything  we  had.  He  was  cruel  to  mamma  — 
poor  mamma  I " 

"  That  is  why  I  want  you.  I  said  it  was  a  debt. 
All  that  I  can  do  for  you  will  never  repay  it.  I  must 
be  brother  and  —  father  to  you,"  and  here  his  voice 
grew  husky. 

Hope  was  too  much  stunned  by  her  recent  grief,  too 
much  surprised  by  all  the  late  events,  to  be  curious. 
Circumstances  had  never  cultivated  this  quality  of  her 
nature.  And  something  that  she  could  not  understand 
gave  her  perfect  confidence  in  Stephen.  But  she  was 
too  weary  and  frightened  to  talk.  She  simply  came  and 


160  STEPHEN   DANE. 

placed  her  hand  in  his.  These  little  mute  appeals  were 
strongly  characteristic  "of  Hope.  She  was  not  a  talka- 
tive child,  but  often  impressed  you  more  by  a  single 
gesture  than  many  words  would  have  done. 

After  Mr.  and  Mrs:  Adams  returned,  a  hearse  brought 
all  that  was  mortal  of  Mrs.  Forsyth,  shrouded,  ready 
for  sepulture.  Silas  declared  it  looked  too  heathenish 
to  bury  it  the  same  day,  and  there  seemed  no  other 
course.  Hope  could  eat  no  dinner,  and  Mrs.  Adams 
took  her  off  to  her  room,  and  insisted  upon  her  going  to 
bed.  The  tired  and  overwrought  nerves  succumbed  to 
these  kind  attentions,  and  she  soon  fell  asleep. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Forsyth  was  buried.  Stephen  had 
announced  his  intentions  respecting  Hope. 

"  I  am  sure  I'd  be  willing  to  help  take  care  of  the 
child,  Dane,  until  she  can  do  for  herself.  What  a 
scamp  that  Forsyth  was  !  and,  between  us,  I  never  had 
a  high  opinion  of  Mrs.  Vennard.  But  it  is  shameful 
that  the  poor  child  must  be  the  greatest  sufferer." 

"She  never  will  be.  You  are  kind,  Adams,  but  I 
want  to  do  it  all  myself.  I  may  never  have  wife  nor 
child  to  share  my  prosperity,  and  she  will  be  doubly 
welcome." 

"There's  something  about  you,  Stephen,  that  I've  never 
been  able  to  make  out  wholly.  A  sort  of  chivalrous  feel- 
ing that,  since  you  were  successful  where  Vennard  failed, 
you  must  needs  owe  him  a  duty.  I  don't  feel  so  at  all. 


HOPE.  161 

A  man  has  a  right  to  the  labor  of  his  own  brains, 
surely.  And  if  it  had  been  a  point  of  honor  before, 
his  death  settled  that.  In  the  old  times  you  saw  no 
cause  for  gratitude.  He  did  grind  the  men  to  the  last 
notch." 

"  I'm  odd  in  some  matters,"  Stephen  Dane  said,  look- 
ing into  the  grate  fire,  and  thrusting  down  the  black 
secret  he  carried  about  with  him.  "  And  God  seems  to 
have  sent  this  child  to  me ;  so,  having  no  one  else,  I'll 
care  for  her." 

"  The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  marry  ;  "  and  Adams 
laughed  good-humoredly.  "  It  gives  a  man  an  interest 
in  all  the  rest  of  the  world." 

Mrs.  Adams  had  busied  herself  in  preparing  some 
proper  clothing  for  Hope.  Until  the  past  summer  the 
child  had  been  comfortable,  and  comparatively  happy. 
When  Mrs.  Forsyth  went  to  Europe,  Hope  had  been 
placed  at  a  good  boarding-school,  where  she  had  re- 
mained, spending  most  of  her  vacations  as  well,  until 
the  last  cruel  step  on  Mr.  Forsyth's  part.  Hope  was 
shocked,  when  she  came  home,  to  find  her  step-mother 
so  much  of  an  invalid,  and  to  learn  of  sufferings  caused 
by  a  brutal  and  selfish  husband.  Poverty  had  followed 
hard  upon  the  desertion ;  yet  this  had  been  the  only 
miserable  period  in  Hope's  life,  happily  brief. 

Stephen  had  written  to  Joe,  appointing  a  day  for  his 
return,  and  informing  her  of  the  addition  he  was  to  make 


162  STEPHEN  DANE. 

in  the  family,  but  not  mentioning  Hope's  name.  During 
his  absence  Joe  had  been  spending  a  fortnight  in  Tregony 
with  Sally  Fawcett.  She  had  counted  much  on  the 
visit,  yet  it  must  be  confessed  it  was  something  of  a 
failure.  Unconsciously  Joe  had  taken  upon  herself  a 
few  of  the  graces  and  the  tastes  of  her  new  life.  The 
disorderly  household,  the  rude,  rough  children,  the 
brawling  matron,  and  the  jolly  but  undeniably  coarse 
head  of  the  house,  filled  Joe  with  a  strange  dismay. 
Everything  seemed  changed ;  the  hills  smaller ;  the  irreg- 
ular village,  with  its  faded  old  houses,  such  a  contrast 
to  her  memory  of  it.  Yes,  she  had  outgrown  all  these 
things,  and  longed  for  the  neat,  orderly  home,  the  quiet, 
and,  more  than  ever,  for  Stephen.  The  world  grows 
narrower  with  every  old  dream  that  dies  out,  and  we 
cling  more  tenderly  to  the  friends  who  are  left. 

"  I  wonder  if  we  shall  like  this  little  girl !  "  Joe  had 
said  to  old  black  Katy  twenty  times  at  least.  "  It's  so 
odd  of  him  to  want  to  bring  her  home  !  " 

But  the  sitting-room  looked  bright  and  cheerful  as 
the  autumn  day  drew  to  a  close.  Joe's  hair  was  brushed 
until  it  shone  like  satin,  and  she  had  a  knot  of  scarlet 
ribbon  at  her  throat.  She  waited  impatiently  enough, 
listening  to  every  carriage  and  every  footfall.  And  at 
last  they  came. 

Joe  sprang  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  Never  in  all 
her  life  had  she  been  so  glad  to  see  Stephen.  One  or 


HOPE.  163 

two  happy  tears  fell  on  his  shoulder,  where  she  buried 
her  face  after  he  had  kissed  it. 

The  three  entered  the  sitting-room.  Joe  looked  cu- 
riously at  the  child,  and  said,  "  Why,  I  didn't  think  she 
was  so  large  !  " 

Stephen  removed  her  hat  and  cloak,  and  turned  her 
around,  facing  Joe.  "  Have  you  ever  seen  her  before  ?  " 
he  asked. 

Joe  gazed  carelessly  at  first ;  then  the  expression  deep- 
ened. She  came  and  put  her  hands  on  Hope's  shoulders, 
and  looked  into  her  eyes. 

"  Good  Heavens,  Stephen  ! "  she  said.  "  It's  Hope 
Vennard ! " 

It  was  the  child's  turn  to  wonder.  She  had  been  too 
full  of  grief  to  think  or  question  before.  Now,  as  she 
glanced  from  one  to  the  other,  she  exclaimed,  — 

K  How  do  you  all  know  my  name  is  Hope  Vennard  ?  " 

Joe  mutely  appealed  to  Stephen  for  answer. 

The  explanation  must  come  some  time. 

"  We  knew  your  father,"  he  said.  "  We  used  to  live 
in  Tregony." 

"  When  he  was  —  when  he  died  ?  "  For  Hope  stopped, 
shivering  at  the  ugly  word  "  murdered."  Both  her  com- 
panions remarked  it.  Joe  stole  a  sidelong  glance  at 
Stephen,  which  he  felt,  rather  than  saw.  He  made  a 
great  effort  to  obtain  perfect  mastery  over  himself,  and 
answered,  — 

11 


164  STEPHEN   DANE. 

"  Yes,  we  worked  in  the  Foundery,  both  Mr.  Adams 
and  I.  We  left  Tregony  that  autumn." 

Hope  was  studying  Stephen  attentively.  She  came 
close  to  him,  and  looked  into  his  eyes. 

"I  believe  I  remember ;  "  but  her  voice  had  a  vague, 
confused  sound,  and  her  eyes  wandered  over  him  uncer- 
tainly. "  I  was  in  the  Foundery  one  night,  and  a  man 
held  me  up  that  I  might  look  into  a  kettle  of  melted 
iron.  He  was  so  strong  !  I  used  to  think  of  it  nights 
as  I  was  falling  asleep,  and  it  gave  me  such  a  good,  safe 
feeling.  It  was  you." 

"  Yes."     Stephen  breathed  hard. 

M  O,  I  am  so  glad  to  come  back  to  you ! "  and,  with 
a  little  cry,  Hope  hid  herself  in  the  clasp  of  the  strong 
arms  again. 

A  pang  shot  through  Joe's  waiting  heart.  As  if 
already  she  was  crowded  out  of  her  place. 

"This  is  my  cousin  Josephine,"  Stephen  said  pres- 
ently, bethinking  himself.  "And  this  is  to  be  your 
home  until  you  are  tired  of  it,  and  want  to  go  away." 

"  I  never  shall,"  was  Hope's  confident  rejoinder. 

And  thus  began  a  new  era,  not  only  in  the  life  of 
Hope  Vennard,  but  in  that  of  both  of  the  others. 
Stephen  Dane  meant  to  atone  for  his  father's  sin  in 
his  tender  care  of  this  friendless  child. 


LOVE.  165 


IX. 
LOVE. 

IT  was  strange  how  soon  and  how  easily  Hope  Ven- 
nard  settled  herself  in  her  new  home.  It  was  not 
natural  that  the  death  of  Mrs.  Forsyth  should  occasion 
any  deep  or  permanent  sorrow.  She  had  never  tried  to 
attach  Hope  to  herself  until  she  became  dependent  upon 
her  .kindly  services  as  nurse ;  and  even  then  real  love 
was  lacking.  And  Hope  just  fitted  into  this  empty 
niche  in  Stephen  Dane's  home.  A  noisy  or  demonstra- 
tive child  must  have  worked  a  change  ;  with  Hope  every- 
thing went  on  as  usual.  And  although  Joe  received 
her  a  trifle  coldly  at  first,  there  was  a  silent  charm  about 
her  that  the  elder  could  not  resist.  How  it  came  to  pass 
neither  remembered,  perhaps,  but  in  a  little  while  they 
were  fast  friends.  Much  of  it  was  due  to  Joe's  womanly 
longing  for  affection.  And  when  the  child  laid  her 
golden  head  in  Joe's  lap,  or  twined  her  soft  arms  about 
the  other's  neck,  a  warm  sympathy  grew  up  between 
them.  I  think  Hope  exercised  a  strong  and  mysterious 


166  STEPHEN  DANE. 

sway  by  right  of  her  beauty.  It  was  a  daily  miracle  to 
Joe.  The  soft,  shining  hair,  floating  out  in  rippling, 
golden  waves;  the  clear,  pearly  complexion,  with  the 
delicate,  peachy  tint  in  the  cheeks  ;  those  large,  wonder- 
ful eyes,  in  which  you  could  seem  to  see  the  depths  of 
her  pure  soul ;  the  grace  of  her  figure'and  every  motion  ; 
the  hundred  winsome  ways,  —  fascinated  Joe  as  with  a 
spell. 

Another  charm  was  her  voice.  There  was  something 
peculiar  in  this,  and  it  touched  you  nearly  as  much  in 
her  talking  as  in  her  singing.  Stephen  had  added  a 
piano  since  her  coming,  for  her  education  had  been  in 
no  wise  neglected ;  indeed,  in  music  she  had  attained  an 
unusual  proficiency,  for  it  had  hitherto  been  the  one 
solace  of  her  life.  To  Katy  in  the  kitchen  this  was  a 
perfect  marvel.  More  than  once  she  said,  "Miss  Joe, 
if  eber  I  git  to  heaben,  I  'spect  to  hear  jes'  sich  singin'. 
It's  like  the  angels  now." 

But  the  quiet  evenings  when  they  were  alone  pleased 
Joe  the  best,  perhaps.  With  Hope's  head  in  her  lap, 
and  the  soft,  white  fingers  clasping  hers,  dropping  now 
and  then  a  kiss,  or  pressing  them  with  childish  impulse 
against  cheek  and  dimpled  chin,  and  talking  as  no  one 
ever  had  to  Joe  before.  No  wonder  the  poor,  hungry 
heart  feasted.  Fate, 'in  shutting  her  out  from  all  other 
loves,  had  made  her  the  more  easily  assailed  by  this. 

Between  Stephen  and  Hope  there  existed  something 


LOVE.  167 

for  which  reserve  is  too  strong  a  name ;  and  yet  it  was  a 
distance.  Nothing  bordering  on  coldness  or  distrust. 
Hope  went  to  him  as  frankly  in  any  emergency  as  if  he 
had  really  been  her  brother.  And  he  was  tender  and 
considerate ;  but  there  was  a  point  which  neither  passed, 
a  boundary  which  seemed  to  have  been  settled  once  for 
all  when  he  brought  her  there.  Perhaps  Joe  had  un- 
wittingly deepened  the  impression.  One  evening,  after 
Hope  had  been  detailing  somewhat  of  her  past  life,  she 
said,  eagerly,  — 

"  I  remember  so  little  about  my  father  !  I  mean  to  ask 
your  cousin  the  particulars  concerning  his  death.  He 
must  surely  know.  Mamma  never  talked  about  him  : 
she  said  it  was  too  terrible  for  women.  Will  he  mind, 
do  you  think  ?  " 

"No,  don't  ask  him,"  Joe  exclaimed,'  with  sudden 
dread.  "  He  can't  tell  you." 

"Why?     He  was  there'!  " 

"Yes,  but  —  "  Joe  shivered  at  a  flood  of  old  recol- 
lections. 

"He  said — when  mamma  died,  it  was — that  he  owed 
a  debt.  How  did  it  come  ?  " 

"Did  he  tell  you  that?"  Joe  asked,  fiercely.  "And 
what  else  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  O,  please  don't  look  at  me  in  that  man- 
ner !  What  was  it  about  papa  ?  They  never  found  who 
murdered  him.  Did  he  —  did  your  cousin  know  —  " 


168  STEPHEN   DANE. 

"  Hush."  Joe's  voice  was  hoarse  with  the  passion  of 
fright.  "  No  one  ever  found  out  anything.  He  might 
have  fallen  in  the  river  and  injured  himself.  If  any  one 
can  tell,  I  don't  believe  he  or  she  ever  will  now.  It's 
all  past  and  gone.  But  don't  ask  him,  child  —  Stephen. 
Promise  me ! " 

The  look  in  Joe's  face  awed  Hope.  She  promised 
solemnly. 

"  And  now  let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  No  good  can 
ever  come  of  it.  May  be  in  the  judgment  day  it'll  be 
told." 

Hope  did  not  make  herself  miserable  trying  to  solve 
this  mystery,  or  the  other  one,  the  debt  of  which  Stephen 
had  spoken.  And  as  she  grew  older,  new  impressions 
effaced  these.  She  was  too  happy  to  brood  over  that 
indistinct  past.  On  this  point  she  obeyed  Joe  scrupu- 
lously. And  Stephen,  fancying  she  had  forgotten  her 
father,  had  no  wish  to  recall  him  to  her  mind. 

Of  the  peaceful  days  that  glided  over  them  I  have  but 
little  to  tell.  Five  years,  that  had  seemed  almost  a  life- 
time to  Stephen  Dane  when  he  brought  Hope  Vennard 
home,  passed  with  few  outward  changes,  reckoned  by 
events.  She  blossomed  into  womanhood  with  all  the 
beauty  her  early  years  had  promised.  The  grace  of  her 
own  dead  mother  must  have  come  out  in  her,  for 
Stephen  watched  in  vain  for  some  sign  of  her  father. 
She  was  so  gentle  and  winsome,  so  lavish  with  her 


LOVE.  169 

smiles  and  tenderness,  so  generous  in  every  act,  and 
feeling !  Friends  she  made  readily.  Groups  of  gay 
young  girls  besieged  her,  and  would  have  engrossed 
every  spare  hour  if  she  so  willed ;  but  many  of  them 
were  sacred  to  Joe.  And  what  of  brightness  and  joy 
she  could  bring  into  the  house,  she  did  gladly.  It  had 
been  so  sweet  a  place  of  refuge  to  her. 

Stephen  Dane  at  thirty-three  had  reached  his  full 
manhood.  There  was  in  him  now  an  element  of  con- 
scious and  well-tried  strength,  a  healthy,  liberal  life. 
He  had  fought  some  hard  battles,  and  received  some 
wounds,  but  they  left  no  rankling  bitterness.  Grave  he 
would  always  be ;  but  it  was  a  sweet,  tender  gravity, 
the  touch  of  some  old  sorrow  that  had  entered  his  being 
and  become  a  part  of  him,  a  softened  shadow,  as  you 
sometimes  see  on  a  summer  day,  stealing  partly  over  a 
meadow-slope,  while  the  rest  is  bathed  in  brilliant  sun- 
shine. The  old  vexed  questions  had  been  forever  set  at 
rest,  not  by  any  triumphant  solution,  but  the  simple 
faith  we  must  all  come  to  at  last.  Whatever  God 
willed,  whatever  had  come  upon  him  without  his  own 
volition,  was  to  be  borne  patiently.  Wherein  he  had 
sinned  he  repented  truly  and  humbly,  and  then  he  went 
forward  to  do  his  duty  towards  his  fellow-men.  By 
that  rare  experience  vouchsafed  only  to  deep,  far- 
reaching  souls,  he  knew  where  to  aid,  where  to  speak  a 
word  in  season.  More  than  one  who  had  gone  astray 


170  STEPHEN    DANE. 

listened  and  was  reclaimed.  He,  too,  had  been  beset 
by  perils  and  temptations,  and,  instead  of  condemning, 
yearned  over  others  with  infinite  pity. 

It  seemed  to  him  he  had  gone  on  prospering  far  beyond 
his  deserts.  After  the  old  ambitions  had  been  reached, 
he  was  satisfied ;  but  Fortune,  so  chary  at  first,  now 
became  bountiful.  As  if  she  could  not  lavish  enough 
upon  him  I  A  position  in  the  scientific  world  of  which 
he  had  not  even  dreamed,  friends  that  he  had  never 
dared  to  count  on,  and  wealth  more  than  sufficient  to 
satisfy  his  wishes.  Was  there  anything  lacking? 

Yes,  one  gift,  one  blessing. 

The  night  he  had  held  Hope  asleep  in  his  arms  dimly 
prefigured  this.  That  he  should  love  her  seemed  right 
and  natural.  He  had  meant  to  give  her  everything  in 
his  power,  affection  amongst  the  rest.  All  this  un- 
questioningly  until  now. 

What  roused  him  first  with  a  thrill  of  terror  and  pain 
was  the  knowledge  that  his  soul  longed  for  a  return. 
That  his  regard  had  merged  into  something  stronger 
and  more  absolute  than  friendly  or  even  fraternal  love. 
The  whole  passion  of  his  life  centred  in  Hope  Vennard. 
How  it  had  come  about  he  could  hardly  tell.  But  the 
strong  manhood  in  him  asserted  itself.  He  found  his 
desires  eager  and  vehement.  He  glanced  tremblingly 
adown  the  future,  and  saw  the  hard  fight  before  him. 


LOVE.  171 

There  was  an  impassable  barrier  between.  Another 
hand  had  placed  it  there. 

It  may  shock  you,  but  in  these  first  moments  he 
almost  hated  his  poor  old  father  lying  in  the  grave. 
Forgive  him.  It  was  so-  hard  to  bear !  And  God 
knows  how  truly  he  repented  all  these  weak,  passion- 
stained  hours.  But  to  feel  himself  Hope  Vennard's 
equal  in  every  point,  to  have  the  consciousness  that 
he  might  win  her,  and  be  held  back  by  this,  was  too 
bitter ! 

Life  would  be  too  perfect  with  this  one  delicious 
dream  realized.  He  hardly  dared  think  of  such  joy. 
No,  it  was  a  land  he  should  only  behold  from  mountain- 
tops,  but  never  reach. 

And  Hope,  unconscious  of  this,  made  herself  sweeter 
every  day.  For  him,  alone.  As  a  little  girl,  pleasing 
him  had  been  her  first  duty.  Now  it  grew  into  some- 
tiring  tenderer.  I  do  not  know  as  she  understood  her- 
self why  his  approbation  was  so  much  to  her,  why  she 
treasured  every  smile,  why  she  spurred  up  Joe's  latent 
energies  to  make  home  more  attractive. 

Hope  Vennard's  nature  had  that  delicate  finish,  —  call 
it  tact,  if  you  will,  though  that  hardly  expresses  it, — the 
rare  faculty  of  understanding  and  meeting  the  moods  of 
another.  Joe  lacked  this  entirely  !  Some  things  she 
avoided  from  a  sort  of  dumb  terror,  like  admitting  her 
knowledge  of  Stephen's  secret ;  but  in  so  many  respects 


172  STEPHEN   DANE. 

she  was  deficient  in  that  womanly  adaptiveness  that 
renders  some  so  charming !  More  than  once  she  had 
been  made  absolutely  cross  and  miserable  by  its  exercise 
in  Hope.  And  through  these  years  she  had  come  to 
perceive  that  her  vague  dreams  respecting  Stephen 
could  never  be  reality.  She  could  see  the  inharmonious- 
ness  of  their  natures  —  that  while  his  had  broadened  and 
deepened,  while  he  had  grown  to  be  the  perfect  gentle- 
man, she  had  taken  on  few  new  graces.  Hope  played 
and  sang  to  him ;  when  she  met  with  a  choice  little 
poem,  she  read  it  aloud,  or,  better  still,  repeated  it  in 
her  rich,  enchanting  tones,  just  at  twilight,  when  it  was 
most  effective.  She  embroidered  slippers,  or  put  his 
initials  in  the  corners  of  pocket  handkerchiefs,  with  her 
dainty  needle,  that  seemed  endowed  with  magic.  If  she 
twined  a  flower  in  her  hair,  it  drooped  in  the  most 
exquisite  manner.  Everything  she  touched  grew  lovelier 
from  the  contact. 

And  then  she  was  in  the  first  flush  of  girlhood,  Joe 
fading  in  her"  thirties.  Yet  it  must  be  confessed  the 
years  improved  her,  or  else  Hope's  influence.  I  think 
the  young  girl,  in  the  lavish  generosity  of  her  nature, 
would  have  endowed  Joe  with  half  her  beauty,  and  half 
her  gifts,  had  such  a  thing  been  possible.  As  it  was, 
she  always  brought  her  out  into  the  best  light,  when  Joe 
was  not  sullen  and  ungracious,  as  she  never  could  be 
long  with  Hope. 


LOVE.  173 

And  her  eyes  at  last  saw  what  both  were  unconscious 
of  betraying.  There  had  always  been  a  little  dull 
jealousy  regarding  Hope.  Yet  Stephen  seldom  petted 
her  as  one  naturally  might  a  child,  and  Hope  had  been 
shy  in  this  one  respect,  though  free  enough  in  all  others. 
But  the  certainty  had  come  gradually  upon  Joe.  first 
that  Stephen  could  never  love  her,  and  then  that  he 
loved  another.  It  roused  her  to  a  sort  of  angry  despera- 
tion. How  dared  Stephen  think  of  the  child,  when  his 
hand  was  red  with  the  father's  blood  ! 

For  all  this  time  the  belief  had  clung  stubbornly  to 
Joe  that  she  alone  had  solved  the  mystery.  I  am  not 
sure  but  it  rendered  her  the  more  persistently  tender 
towards  him,  knowing  there  was  one  thing  that  his  new 
life  and  position  could  never  efface,  a  deed  that  brought 
him  down  to  the  lowest  level.  She  had  received  Hope 
the  more  kindly  because  she  felt  Stephen  owed  her  some 
amends,  and  she  was  willing  to  share  his  burden.  But 
that  any  warmer  interest  should  exist,  seemed  monstrous 
even  to  her  narrow  mind. 

Yet  the  years  had  been  very  pleasant  to  them  all, 
interspersed  with  an  occasional  visit  to  New  York,  the 
first  of  which  had  been  the  grandest  holiday  in  Joe's  life. 
Many  quiet  little  home  pleasures  had  brightened  the 
time,  for  Stephen  had  truly  endeavored  to  make  them 
both  happy.  He  had  meant  to  devote  his  whole  life  to 
this  object.  Every  indulgence  was  lavished  upon  Hope. 


174  STEPHEN   DANE. 

If  she  had  so  willed,  she  might  have  reigned  a  queen. 
She  was  neither  imperious  nor  selfish ;  she  liked  better 
to  give  than  to  receive ;  and  since  in  so  many  things  she 
must  be  a  recipient,  she  gave  daily  of  her  abundant 
sweetness. 

And  so  they  came  around  to  March  —  to  a  time  that 
was  always  a  little  festival.  They  were  rather  late  at 
breakfast,  for  Joe  had  been  suffering  from  a  severe  cold 
for  several  days.  As  Stephen  rose  from  the  table  he 
said,  — 

"Hope,  run  up  to  my  room  and  bring  me  a  roll  of 
drawings  lying  on  my  desk.  I  forgot  them." 

Hope  was  off  like  a  flash,  up  to  the  apartment  before 
Joe  had  found  the  energy  to  say,  — 

"Why,  you  laid  them  in  the  book-case  last  night, 
Stephen,  after  you  finished  the  model." 

"  Did  I  ?  I  believe  you're  right,  though  ;  "  and  as  he 
went  to  the  sitting-room,  he  called  out,  "They're  down 
here,  Hope." 

She  met  him  at  the  doorway,  flushed  and  smiling. 
He  was  slowly  buttoning  his  coat. 

"  Too  bad  !  "  he  began,  with  a  smile.  "I'm  growing 
old  and  forgetful." 

"Are  you?"  There  was  a  sort  of  merry  light  in  her 
face. 

"Do  you  know  what  day  it  is?"  he  asked. 

"My  birthday." 


LOVE.  175 

"And  what  do  you  want,  girlie?  I  ought  to  have 
thought  sooner,  and  given  you  a  party." 

"  Next  year  you  may.  I  shall  be  a  woman  grown 
then.  So  don't  be  too  lavish,  for  I  have  a  fancy  I  shall 
live  to  be  a  venerable  dame,  and  there's  a  many  birth- 
days from  seventeen  to  seventy." 

"  Seventeen  !  "  he  repeated,  looking  her  over.  Hard- 
ly medium  size,  slender  and  round,  with  pliant,  shapely 
limbs,  and  the  fair  face  full  of  softest  pencillings.  How 
wonderfully  beautiful  it  was !  The  tiny  veins  filling 
with  the  lightest  emotion,  making  her  flush  with  a 
thought ;  the  tender,  luminous  eyes ;  and  the  ripe,  full 
mouth  inviting  caresses  with  its  dainty  curves.  0,  if 
she  could  be  his  !  He  drew  a  long,  long  breath. 

"  Does  it  frighten  you  —  the  prospect  of  my  growing 
old  ?  You  look  so  grave." 

He  placed  both  arms  around  her,  and,  yielding  to  the 
half-unconscious  pressure,  her  head  sunk  upon  his 
breast. 

"No,  it  was  not  that."  His  voice  had  a  strange, 
strangled  sound,  and  then  he  paused  for  many  seconds. 

"  Something  came  in  my  mind  just  then  —  a  subject 
that  has  troubled  me  sorely.  Help  me  to  decide, 
Hope." 

"  If  I  can." 

"  Hope,"  —  the  voice  was  tremulous  as  well  as  husky, 
now,  —  "suppose  one  man  committed  a  deadly  sin 


176  STEPHEN   DANE. 

against  another,  in  one  of  those  evil  moments  of  life  when 
temptation  was  strong,  and  human  nature  weak.  It 
changed  the  man's  whole  course,  deprived  him  of  home, 
caused  him  much  suffering ;  but  if  the  other  repented 
sincerely,  humbly,  and  made  all  the  restitution  in  his 
power,  do  you  think  he  could  be  forgiven?" 

"  Why  not,  Stephen  ?  " 

"  O,  you  do  not  understand,"  and  he  roused  himself. 
"  What  if  it  had  been  you.  If  some  one  had  wronged 
you  bitterly,  deprived  you  of  every  pleasure  and  com- 
fort, sent  you  into  the  world — " 

"An  outcast,  a  beggar,  as  I  was.  And  Mr.  For- 
syth  wronged  me.  No,  don't  speak.  Has  he  come 
back?" 

That  answered  Stephen  Dane's  purpose  as  an  illustra- 
tion. "  Well,  if  he  had  returned,"  he  went  on,  hurried- 
ly, "  if  he  made  or  was  willing  to  make  all  the  repara- 
tion in  his  power,  could  you  forgive  him  ?  " 

"I  could  not  forget  that  he  had  sinned  against  an- 
other as  well.  Sometimes  one  feels  the  wrongs  of 
one's  friends  more  keenly  than  one's  own.  And  poor 
mamma ! " 

Stephen  struck  his  clenched  hand  to  his  forehead. 
The  pulses  in  his  temple  throbbed  with  passionate 
anguish.  Yes,  if  she  knew  all,  she  would  hate  him  for 
his  father's  crime. 

"  You   couldn't   forgive   him   then  ? "     There   was  a 


LOVE.  177 

despairing  entreaty  in  his  tone,  something  that  pleaded 
powerfully,  but  could  not  hope. 

"It  would  be  hard,  but  I  should  do  it  at  last,  because 
it  was  right.  Only  — I  couldn't  love  him." 

"  No ;  a  man  must  be  wild  to  expect  it.  A  blind, 
weak  fool !  O,  Hope,  there  is  just  such  a  man  in  the 
world,  and  he  cannot  feel  satisfied  with  the  forgiveness  — 
he  wants  the  love.  His  life  looks  so  barren  without  it ! 
But  it  is  right.  God  means  every  sin  shall  be  atoned 
for  by  its  kind.  Dear,  it  is  cruel  for  me  to  torment 
you." 

His  manner  moved  her  strangely. 

"It  is  Mr.  Forsyth,"  she  said.  "I  forgive  him  be- 
cause you  plead  for  him,  because  I  — "  she  was  about 
to  add,  "  because  I  love  you,"  in  its  simplest  fashion ; 
and  then,  with  a  great  rush  of  feeling,  that  drowned  out 
every  other  thought,  she  knew  she  could  never  utter  the 
words  again  until  he  asked  for  them.  The  innocence 
of  ignorance  was  gone,  and  love  was  almost  shamed  into 
.guilt  by  the  suddenness  of  the  revelation ;  so  she  stood 
trembling  in  his  arms. 

He  mistook  her  agitation. 

"Xo,"  he  answered,  "it  is  not  Mr.  Forsyth.  I  don't 
think  he  will  ever  be  so  far  repentant"  —  with  a  grim, 
hard  smile.  "  It  was  another  man." 

Hope's  breath  came  hard  and  rapid.  Stephen  felt  it 
against  his  heart.  "Forgive  me,"  he  said,  softly. 

"  No,  you  have  never  sinned  against  me." 


178  STEPHEN  DANE. 

"If  I  had?" 

For  answer  she  raised  her  face  until  it  met  his,  and 
kissed  him.  A  vague  suspicion  entered  his  mind,  but  he 
dared  not  even  give  it  room.  Then  he  put  her  away 
from  him,  and  walked  slowly  through  the  hall,  bewil- 
dered. If  it  was  possible  to  believe  ! 

Hope  threw  herself  on  the  sofa,  and  buried  her  head 
deep  in  the  pillow.  The  burning  face,  with  the  temples 
throbbing  so  wildly  from  an  emotion  that  was  neither 
fear  nor  expectation,  but  something  quite  new  and  over- 
whelming. She  could  not  think.  She  only  breathed 
until  Joe  called. 

"Do  you  know  it  is  almost  nine,  Hope?  What  are 
you  doing  ?  " 

Hope  ran  for  her  hat  and  shawl,  gathered  up  her 
books,  and  was  off  to  school.  The  wild  March  blast 
blew  in  her  face,  but  she  never  heeded  it.  The  thick 
gray  skies  lowered  about  her,  yet  she  was  insensible  to 
their  influence.  She  could  not  seem  to  waken  herself 
from  the  strange  spell. 

Joe  had  the  house  to  herself  all  day.  Ivaty  would 
not  let  her  do  any  work,  but  settled  her  on  the  sofa,  and 
tied  up  her  aching  head  with  a  napkin  dripping  with 
aromatic  vinegar ;  and  there  Hope  found  her  on  her 
return  at  three  in  the  afternoon.  She  petted  her  a  little 
while.  There  was  something  magnetic  in  Hope's 
fingers,  as  well  as  her  smile.  And  to-day,  a  wonderful 
lifjht  in  her  face  that  startled  Joe. 


LOVE.  179 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  she  asked,  at  length. 

"  Nothing.  I  am  seventeen,  you  know.  I  ought  to 
look  different." 

"  I  don't  see  why,"  was  Joe's  pettish  rejoinder,  think- 
ing of  her  own  lost  and  unlovely  youth.  Yet  at  seven- 
teen she  had  dreamed.  How  vain  and  idle  it  had 
proved ! 

Stephen,  coming  in,  found  Hope  kneeling  beside  his 
cousin,  one  white,  slender  hand  in  Joe's  raven  hair. 

"  There ! "  he  exclaimed,  dropping  a  box  into  the 
other. 

She  opened  it  with  a  child's  eager  delight.  A  beauti- 
ful set  of  pearls. 

"  O,  you  are  so  good  —  isn't  he,  Joe?  I  wanted 
pearls  so  much  !  A  thousand  thanks  !  " 

Then  their  eyes  met,  and  hers  drooped,  while  a  dainty 
hue  flitted  over  her  face. 

"I'm  sorry  you  are  sick,  Joe,"  she  went  on,  to  hide 
her  embarrassment.  "  We  ought  to  have  a  good  gay 
time,  for  one  can  never  be  seventeen  again." 

"  No ; "  and  the  tears  overflowed  Joe's  eyes.  The 
world  seemed  wide,  and  weary,  and  desolate. 

She  came  out  to  dinner,  though  Hope  took  the  head 
of  the  table.  Stephen  watched  her  with  a  new  interest, 
and,  like  Joe,  thought  something  strangely  beguiling 
had  taken  possession  of  her.  It  was  not  so  much  in 
what  she  said  as  what  she  did,  and  even  her  very 
silence  was  expressive. 
12 


180  STEPHEN   DANE. 

The  night  closed  in  with  a  storm.  Joe's  headache 
grew  worse ;  perhaps,  too,  there  was  an  undefined  pain 
in  her  heart,  that  could  have  no  name.  As  if  she  felt  the 
storm,  that  was  to  overwhelm  her  some  day,  slowly 
coming  on,  and  she  must  gather  up  her  forces  to  resist 
it.  She  cowered  pitifully  in  the  dumb  anguish  of  mental 
as  well  as  physical  pain,  and  wanted  darkness  and  soli- 
tude. I  do  not  know  that  she  prayed  for  any  courage 
or  strength  ;  she  had  no  faith  just  then. 

When  Hope  could  keep  her  on  the  sofa  no  longer, 
she  accompanied  her  to  her  sleeping-room.  Joe  sub- 
mitted to  the  ministrations  of  the  soft  fingers,  because 
she  felt  too  weak  and  miserable  to  resist ;  but  once  in 
bed,  she  would  not  allow  Hope  to  remain. 

It  seemed  so  odd  for  the  young  girl  to  spend  that 
whole  evening  with  Stephen  I  They  were  so  rarely 
alone,  except  for  some  few  stray  moments  I  This  very 
distance  had  made  love  stronger  and  keener. 

She  took  her  sewing  and  went  on  quietly,  now  and 
then  giving  Stephen  a  furtive  glance.  lie  sat  just  before 
the  grate,  —  they  always  used  the  grate  in  this  room ; 
it  was  his  fancy,  —  and  now,  with  his  head  a  little 
bowed,  he  was  peering  into  the  ruddy  glare.  Hope 
studied  the  broad  shoulders,  the  clustering  chestnut 
curls,  the  proud,  almost  massive  head.  He  was  so 
good,  so  strong,  that  it  rested  her  to  look  at  him.  And 
then  she  thought  of  their  morning's  talk.  What  had  it 
meant?  All  day  she  had  been  wondering  if  it  was  possi- 


LOVE.  181 

ble  that  Mr.  Forsyth  had  returned.  But,  then,  he 
could  have  nothing  to  do  with  her. 

Stephen  turned  suddenly,  and  caught  the  glance  of 
her  steadfast  eyes.  Tney  did  not  even  waver,  so  intent 
was  she. 

"  A  dull  birthday,  Hope.  Next  year  we  must  have 
the  party." 

"  You  give  me  something  better  than  parties  every  day 
of  my  life,"  she  said,  gravely.  wlt  has  been  a  long, 
bright  holiday  since  I  have  known  you." 

"Has  it?     I  am  glad.     I  meant  it  to  be." 

She  came  and  stood  beside  him,  moved  by  some  sud- 
den impulse.  He  glanced  searchingly  into  her  face. 
Was  this  a  girlish  whim,  or  did  it  have  a  deeper 
meaning  ? 

"Stephen,"  she  said,  "will  you  tell  me  more  about 
the  man  you  spoke  of  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Does  he  interest  you  ?  It  has  been  a  perplexing 
question  to  me,  how  far  he  had  a  right  to  take  for- 
giveness, even." 

"  He  should  take  it  just  as  freely  as  it  was  extended 
to  him.  And  if  he  repented  truly,  he  in  some  sort 
earned  the  forgiveness." 

"  God  knows  he  did.  Hope,  do  you  believe  forgive- 
ness washes  away  sin  ?  " 

"Truly  and  fully." 

"  And  that  blight  effaced  by  years  of  earnest  endeavor 


182  STEPHEN   DANE. 

to  do  rightly  and  deal  justly,  raises  him  once  more  to 
the  ranks  of  his  fellow-men  ?  " 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  the  story,  Stephen." 

"No,  I  cannot.  It  is  another  person's  secret,  too. 
The  story  of  a  sad,  gnarled,  wretched  life,  that  might 
have  been  so  much  better.  Two  lives  merged  into  one, 
as  it  were ;  the  later  always  trying  to  make  amends  for 
the  earlier.  And  when  the  toil  was  done,  the  justifica- 
tion worked  out  as  far  as  human,  hands  could  do  it,  you 
think  this  poor,  burdened  soul  might  dare  to  taste  the 
cup  of  happiness  held  to  his  lips  ?  " 

She  could  not  tell  how  it  was,  but  she  connected  him 
with  the  story.  Something  in  his  past  life  that  had 
gone  wrong,  a  mistake  —  crime  she  could  not  impute  to 
him.  The  effects  of  this  had  shadowed  his  life.  If  she 
could  banish  this  cloud  ! 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  resolutely.  "  If  God  brings  happi- 
ness to  any  man  or  woman,  after  a  long  and  sore  punish- 
ment, and  the  proud  soul  casts  it  aside,  it  is  blackest 
ingratitude." 

"  I  think  God  has  brought  it  to  me  ; "  low  and  softly, 
drawing  her  down  on  his  knee,  and  enfolding  her  with 
his  arms.  The  one  home  in  the  wide  world  to  her. 

He  had  been  struggling  fiercely  with  himself  all  day, 
carrying  about  a  certainty  that  Hope  Vennard  loved  him. 
Jf  she  did,  nothing  could  justify  him  in  making  her  un- 
happy. True,  she  was  young,  and  had  seen  little  of  the 


LOVE.  183 

world.  There  might  be  others  —  The  hard  grip  jealousy 
gave  his  heart  told  him  how  strong  and  dominant  his 
love  was,  how  resolved  to  gain  its  object.  All  of  life 
was  as  nothing  compared  to  this  one  little  girl.  Yet  he 
had  forced  himself  into  a  patient  mood  before  his  return 
home,  resolved  to  wait  without  one  overt  act,  until  he 
read  her  secret.  If  he  became  necessary  to  her,  the 
question  would  be  decided  by  something  higher  than 
merely  his  own  wishes. 

Holding  her  there,  his  reasoning  all  went  to  the  winds. 
The  warm,  fragrant  breath  upon  his  cheek,  the  red  of 
the  sweet  lips,  made  redder  by  the  glow  of  the  fire-light, 
the  drooping  lids,  with  their  long  fringes  hiding  some 
secret  in  the  eyes,  — he  was  but  a  man,  after  all. 

"Hope,  I  love  you." 

Only  a  whisper  —  a  breath.  It  was  so  deathly  still 
afterwards  that  they  could  hear  their  hearts  beat. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  and  now  his  voice  trembled  with  its 
vehement  passion. 

"What  can  it  be,  Stephen?     Only  one  thing." 

"  You  love  me  ?  " 

"  I  love  you." 

The  story  of  both  lives  was  told.  Tender  kisses  and 
happy  silence. 

Why  need  she  know  that  miserable  history  ?  Surely 
God  would  not  hold  him  answerable  for  the  sin  of 
another.  And  now  his  whole  heart,  his  whole  exist- 


184  STEPHEN  DANE. 

ence,  should  make  it  up  to  Hope.  No  wish  should  ever 
be  left  ungratified,  no  want  experienced.  For  the  past, 
let  it  go.  He  shook  it  off  like  an  old  garment,  and  sat 
there  enfranchised  by  love.  All  the  long-repressed 
strength  and  sweetness  of  his  nature  came  out  now.  He 
drank  such  delicious  draughts  of  happiness  that  heart 
and  brain  blazed  up  into  a  subtile  flame.  Why,  he  had 
just  learned  what  it  was  to  live  ! 

He  would  have  lingered  there  until  morning  but  for 
Hope.  Consciousness  came  to  her  first.  The  fire  in 
the  grate  had  fallen  into  a  sleepy  smoulder.  Katy  had 
long  since  locked  the  doors  and  gone  to  bed.  And  now 
Hope  pleaded  for  a  release. 

He  stood  up  at  length,  with  his  arm  still  around  her. 
He  took  her  to  the  light,  and  studied  her  face,  full  of 
bashful  blushes. 

"You  are  mine,"  he  said,  exultantly.  "And  if  no 
dearer  tie  should  come  between  us,  you  would  still  be 
mine.  If  it  was  forbidden  in  this  world  that  I  should 
call  you  by  the  sweetest  of  all  names,  wife,  you  could 
never  give  the  right  to  another.  Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

WI  am  yours  for  all  time,  Stephen ; "  and  there  was  a 
strong  and  solemn  cadence  in  her  voice. 

"Thank  God!"  ' 

She  went  to  her  room,  but  he  sat  over  the  dying  fire 
and  dreamed. 


TWO    WOMEN.  185 


X. 

Two  WOMEN. 

HOPE  remained  for  her  music  lesson  the  next  day, 
and  when  she  came  home,  dinner  was  on  the 
table.  Her  quick  eye  noticed  there  was  no  plate  for 
Stephen.  It  flashed  upon  her,  as  foolish  misgivings 
often  do,  what  if  she  should  never  see  him  again  ! 

"  Where  is  Stephen?"  she  asked,  rather  fearfully. 

M  Gone  to  Washington  for  several  days.  He  was 
sorry  to  start  in  such  a  hurry,  and  left  his  good-by 
with  me." 

"  And  you  are  better,  Joe.     I'm  so  glad  !  " 

"  My  head  doesn't  ache,  but  I  feel  miserably  weak.  I 
shall  be  all  right  in  a  few  days." 

They  ate  their  dinner  almost  in  silence.  Hope  went 
to  her  room  afterwards  in  a  curious  mood,  longing  to  be 
alone,  and  yet  strangely  lonesome.  She  glanced  out  of 
the  window  towards  the  west.  The  sun  was  setting  in 
the  cold  March  sky,  pale-blue  overhead,  with  streaks  of 
salmon-color  deepening  into  orange.  No  rose  or  soft, 


186  STEPHEN   DANE. 

hazy  purples  to  break  the  monotony  with  their  fleecy 
drifts. 

Turning,  a  letter  on  the  table  caught  her  eye.  "  Hope 
Vennard,"  written  in  the  clear,  bold  hand  she  knew  so 
well.  It  was  like  Stephen  Dane's  face  —  trusty.  She 
could  almost  see  the  honest  light  in  the  earnest,  brown 
eyes. 

She  pressed  it  to  her  lips  first,  murmuring  thanks  for 
his  thoughtful  regard.  Then  she  dallied  with  the  seal, 
in  her  sweet,  girlish  fashion,  quaffing  the  anticipated  de- 
light slowly.  There  was  the  beginning,  at  length,  — 
"  Hope,  my  darling  !  " 

A  long,  long  letter.  She  strained  her  eyes  by  the 
waning  light  to  read  the  last.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had 
said  nothing  before,  and  all  was  here.  Going  back  to 
the  night  he  had  found  her,  lingering  slowly  over  all 
the  years  that  had  fallen  between,  and  coming  to  his 
resolve  that  he  would  wait  until  she  had  seen  more  of 
life,  of  men,  that  she  might  be  the  surer  of  her  own 
heart,  —  the  resolve  prudence  dictated,  and  love  had 
failed  to  keep.  Yet  there  were  other  thoughts  that 
required  consideration.  He  was  so  much  older.  True, 
he  gave  her  his  heart's  first  and  only  love ;  but  if  it 
lacked  any  freshness  that  she  would  miss  in  days  to 
come,  any  fervor  of  youth  that  she  might  long  for, 
Heaven  only  knew  how  sorely  it  would  pain  him  to  feel 


TWO   WOMEN.  187 

that  he  had  over-persuaded  her  in  his  selfish  love.  So 
she  must  ponder  it  well.  And  then  he  said,  — 

"  Can  my  darling  have  perfect  faith  in  me  —  believe 
me,  trust  me?  There  are  dark  pages  in  my  past,  I 
know  —  a  burden  laid  upon  me  by  another  hand ;  but 
turning  those  leaves,  I  purpose  to  begin  a  new  life. 
Nay,  it  was  begun  long  ago,  and  needs  but  the  seal  of 
her  love  and  trust  to  make  it  blessed  and  perfect.  Can 
she  give  me  so  much?  My  heart,  my  daily  thoughts, 
are  all  hers.  Shall  we  begin  here  the  life  that  is  to  be 
completed  before  God  and  the  angels  ?  " 

There  was  much  more.  At  the  conclusion  he  decided 
this  brief  separation  was  wise  for  both.  In  the  mean 
while  she  must  study  her  own  heart,  and  rest  forever 
assured,  whichever  way  she  felt  impelled  to  act,  that  her 
happiness  was  his  first  wish. 

I  think  any  woman  would  have  been  moved  by  the 
tender  love.  When  it  was  quite  dark,  Hope  leaned  her 
face  against  the  window  casing  and  wept  softly  —  why, 
she  could  hardly  have  told.  Is  there  an  undertone  of 
sadness  in  a  great  joy?  For  she  was  very,  very  happy. 

Presently  she  remembered  Joe,  and  groped  her  way 
out  to  the  hall.  Hope  was  always  generous  with  her 
pleasures.  She  wanted  some  one  to  share  every  delight, 
and  since  there  was  no  longer  a  doubt  as  to  their  love, 
she  must  make  Joe  glad  in  her  joy.  Poor  Joe  —  did 
she  ever  have  a  lover  ?  Not  like  Stephen  —  no  one 


188  STEPHEN   DANE. 

could  be  so  grand  and  sweet ;  but  some  one  who  had 
held  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her. 

She  opened  the  door  and  entered  quietly.  Joe  sat  in 
an  arm-chair  on  one  side  of  the  fire.  How  still  and 
sacred  the  roam  was  !  just  the  time  and  place  for  such  a 
confidence. 

Hope  knelt  down  and  clasped  Joe's  hand  in  both  of 
hers.  It  was  large  and  red ;  no  amount  of  care  ever 
made  it  soft  and  white.  She  caressed  it  tenderly ;  then, 
burying  her  face  in  Joe's  lap,  she  murmured  with  a 
tremulousness  that  sounded  not  unlike  sobs,  — 

w  O,  Joe,  he  loves  me,  he  loves  me  !  " 

Joe  started,  and  sat  upright.  "  Not  Stephen  !  "  she 
exclaimed  in  a  quick,  sharp  tone. 

"  Yes,  Stephen.  Why  not  ?  I  am  not  good  enough 
for  him,  but  then  no  one  is.  And  I  can  give  him 
youth,  and  beauty,  and  love.  I  can  make  him  happy." 

For  a  moment  Joe's  brain  whirled  in  helpless  terror. 
The  blow  had  come,  and  she  was  not  prepared.  We 
may  think  over  an  emergency,  and  fancy  ourselves 
strong ;  but  we  cannot  be  sure  until  the  test,  like  a  gal- 
vanic shock,  is  applied  to  the  unknown  weak  spot,  and 
the  whole  body  reels  and  quivers. 

"What  is  it?  O,  Joe!"  and  Hope  started  at  the 
dilating  eyes  and  ashen  face. 

"  You  can't  marry  him  !  "  she  gasped.  "  God's  curse 
would  be  on  it.  He  had  no  right  to  your  love  —  he 
knows  it." 


TWO   WOMEN.  189 

"He  has  every -right."  Hope  sprang  up  and  poised 
her  golden-crowned  head  with  lofty  pride.  "Did  he  not 
take  me  to  his  heart  and  home  when  I  was  an  outcast? 
Think  of  the  happy  years  he  has  showered  upon  me ! 
And  shall  I  make  him  no  return?  O,  Joe,  you  are 
wild,  indeed  !  He  has  done  everything  for  me,  and  I 
am  proud  to-night  to  feel  that  I  love  him  and  he 
deserves  it." 

I  do  not  know  that  I  can  make  you  understand 
Josephine  Dane.  She  was  not  purely  vindictive ;  she 
took  no  delight  in  thwarting  Stephen  or  Hope.  Only 
now  that  the  fiery  trial  had  come,  the  fierce  flames 
proved  too  much  for  her.  Stephen's  sin  brought  him 
nearer  her  level,  and  she  felt  she  would  rather  go  on 
always  in  this  fashion  than  have  him  so  completely 
engrossed  by  another.  She  loved  him,  too.  She  had 
suffered  for  him.  What  did  this  child  know  ?  Besides, 
the  whole  world  was  Hope's  to  choose  from,  and  she  had 
only  Stephen.  Just  as  you  have  sometimes  seen  a  dull, 
smouldering  fire  blaze  out,  so  the  woman's  nature  burst 
its  ordinary  bonds. 

"Yes,"  she  said  hoarsely,  "  he  did  everything  because 
he  knew  whose  hand  brought  you  where  you  were.  He 
owed  you  something,  Hope  Vennard  !  Your  loss  was 
his  gain,  and  now  he  seeks  to  make  it  up  in  this  fashion. 
God  will  not  let  him,  I  tell  you.  It  is  Stephen  who  is 
wild ! " 

A  horrible  fear  flashed  over  Hope.     The  room  spun 


190  STEPHEN   DANE. 

round,  and  lightning  sparks  danced  before  her  eyes. 
The  debt  Stephen  owed,  the  sin  he  had  committed,  the 
mystery  concerning  her  father's  death,  and  the  strict 
charge  Joe  had  given  her,  so  long  ago,  never  to  mention 
it  —  his  secret,  that  could  not  be  confessed  to  her  — 

"  Joe," — Hope  knelt  at  her  feet  and  clasped  her  hands 
again,  — "I  must  hear  it  now.  If  you  have  any  pity, 
tell  me  the  truth.  What  does  Stephen  know  of  my 
father's  death?" 

"All,"  Joe  responded,  with  a  fierce,  sullen  despera- 
tion. 

"  O,  no,  not  all;  "  and  Hope's  voice  was  hysterical. 
"  Why,  think  a  little,  Joe ;  it  was  murder !  Would 
Stephen  witness  such  a  deed,  and  let  the  miscreant  go 
unpunished?  No,  you  are  mistaken." 

"Life  was  sweet  to  him,"  Joe  said,  looking  into  the 
fire. 

"  O,  Joe  !  "  It  was  the  wail  of  a  heart  rent  asunder. 
And  then  there  was  an  awful,  deathly  silence. 

Presently  Hope  rose.  Her  face  was  icily  white  and 
cold.  A  blue  line  for  the  rosy  lips  Stephen  had  kissed 
last  night.  Her  whole  figure  took  on  a  rigidness  as  if 
she  had  been  frozen. 

"  Joe,"  —  her  voice  was  strangely  hollow,  —  "I  want 
you  to  tell  me  the  whole  truth.  I  promised  to  trust 
him,  and  it  is  basely  wicked  to  break  my  word  ;  but  the 
silence,  and  waiting,  will  kill  me.  God  knows  I  forgive 
him.  I  think  he  has  suffered  bitterly,  and  repented 


TWO   WOMEN.  191 

deeply  for  any  evil  moment  of  passionate  anger. 
Begin." 

"I  can't."     Joe  writhed  in  sickly  fear. 

"You  shall,  Josephine  Dane.  Either  this,  or  take 
back  the  charge  you  have  made,  and  let  me  have 
Stephen,  my  own  love,  once  again." 

She  transfixed  Joe  with  her  resolute  eye.  As  if 
under  the  influence  of  some  strange  spell,  she  told  all 
she  knew.  Her  sincerity  impressed  Hope  powerfully. 
And  yet  no  sound  escaped  her  lips  as  the  story  ended. 
She  was  stunned. 

"  You  couldn't  marry  him?"  Joe  said. 

"  No,  O,  no !  Poor  Stephen.  Joe,  did  you  ever 
hate  him?" 

"No;  I  told  you  I  loved  him.  And  if  he  was  in  a 
prison  cell,  I  would  find  my  way  to  him.  No  crime 
could  ever  taint  him  in  my  eyes.  And  so,  I  love  him 
better  than  you." 

"  O,"  she  moaned,  M  it  is  so  hard  !  so  cruel !  Why 
did  God  let  him  !  God  is  so  strong,  you  know,  and  has 
promised  to  help  us  in  the  hour  of  temptation.  Why 
didn't  he  cry  to  Him  !  You  are  sure,  Joe  !  You  didn't 
dream  this  wild,  horrible  thing  !  " 

Joe  Dane  had  never  told  a  wilful  lie  in  her  whole  life. 
It  angered  her  to  be  doubted  or  disbelieved.  In  her 
way  she  felt  fully  as  miserable  as  Hope.  All  the  ache 
and  agony  she  had  borne  for  years,  all  the  pangs  of 
silent  endurance,  the  coldly  treated  love,  the  hope 


192  STEPHEN  DANE. 

trampled  in  the  dust,  a  pale  corse  despoiled  of  its 
beauty,  the  wasted  youth  and  the  irrepressible  longing, 
joining  in  one  mighty  throe,  burst  the  bonds  of  the  slow- 
travailing  soul  asunder.  She  sprang  up,  and  leaned  her 
elbow  on  the  low  marble  mantel,  to  steady  herself. 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  liked  to  believe  such  a  thing  of  the 
man  /  loved  ?  Do  you  think  it  was  nothing  to  have 
this  terrible  secret  weighing  upon  me,  and  yet  bear  it 
gladly  for  his  sake?  I  am  not  beautiful,  like  you;  I 
can't  take  on  the  gfaces  that  make  you  so  winsome ;  I 
haven't  your  soft  voice,  nor  your  sweet  eyes.  But  I  am 
a  woman,  and  can  love." 

"  Poor  Joe ! "  Hope  came  up  to  her,  and  laid  her 
trembling  hand  on  the  broad  shoulder.  "Yes,  you  have 
suffered  the  most,  and  you  have  the  best  right  to  him. 
There'll  be  one  blessed  night  for  me  to  remember.  And 
when  I  am  gone,  you  and  Stephen  will  settle  into  your 
old  ways,  growing  tenderer  to  each  other.  No  one  will 
ever  come  between  you  again,  for  his  heart  is  all  yours, 
save  the  little  corner  I  crept  into.  Don't  turn  me  quite 
out,  Joe.  For  I  shall  like  to  think  of  you  both  when 
I  am  away,  and  cannot  see  you ;  "  and  Hope's  quivering 
voice  broke  down. 

"  Going  away  ?  "  Joe  exclaimed,  in  a  dazed,  wondering 
manner.  "  Where  can  you  go  ?  " 

"  I  must ;  I  must.  Think — if  it  had  been  your  father 
—  and  the  man  you  loved  !  You  couldn't  take  his  poor 
hand,  knowing  the  stain  there  was  upon  it ;  and  you 


TWO   WOMEN.  193 

would  rather  go  away  and  break  your  own  heart,  than 
stay  and  wound  his  by  coldness.  And  I  think  it  would 
pain  him  terribly  to  know  we  had  talked  this  over." 

"O!"  and  Joe  wrung  her  hands.  "What  have 
I  done?  Why  did  you  make  me  tell  the  story, 
Hope?" 

"  It  is  all  right  and  best.  What  if  I  had  learned  it 
after  I  was  his  —  wife  ;  "  and  she  shuddered.  "  But 
if  I  could  stay,  we  might  betray  our  secret.  I  haven't 
your  reticence.  Some  time,  when  he  questioned  me 
closely,  I  should  be  compelled  to  tell  him.  I  forgive 
him  now.  Poor  Stephen  !  It  has  been  a  hard  burden 
for  him  to  carry.  But"  —  and  her  voice  faltered, — 
"I  don't  know  how  I  could  see  him  again." 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  told  you  ! "  Joe  was  struck 
with  a  latent  remorse.  In  this  tangled  path  she  had 
lost  her  way. 

"No;  as  I  said,  it  is  all  right.  It  won't  kill  me 
now,  for  I  am  young  and  strong ;  and  I  think  God 
meant  that  I  should  know  it  just  at  this  time. 
He  wasn't  quite  sure'  that  it  would  be  wisest  for 
us  to  marry.  I  can  answer  him  now,  without  any 
difficulty." 

The  sad,  patient  face  and  dreary  voice  smote  Joe 
bitterly.  Yet  jealous  love  and  a  certain  rugged  feel- 
ing of  right  upheld  her. 

They  stood  there,  looking  at  each  other  in  dumb 
anguish,  for  the  sake  of  the  man  they  both  loved.  Fate 


194  STEPHEN   DANE. 

ties  hard  and  troublesome  knots  in  her  webs  now  and 
then. 

"  You  see  it  will  be  best  for  me  to  go." 

"  But  where  ?     There's  Mr.  Adams  —  " 

"No,  not  there."  Another  shiver  came  over  Hope. 
"It  must  be  quite  among  strangers,  and  where  he  will 
not  find  me.  A  little  while  ago,  Joe,  I  could  have  gone 
away  with  an  Opera  Troupe ;  a  gentleman  liked  my 
vqjce  so  very  much.  So  I  can  sing  and  teach  music. 
Stephen  has  made  me  able  to  take  care  of  myself.  I 
can't  tell  now  what  I  shall  do  —  but  something.  God 
will  help  me." 

"  Hope,"  Joe  said,  much  moved,  "  when  Stephen 
returns  it  will  be  like  the  brothers  going  back  without 
Benjamin.  How  shall  I  meet  him  ?  He  will  hate  and 
despise  me  for  what  I  have  done.  Yet  I  think  he  was 
wrong.  I  can't  seem  to  make  it  fair  to  my  mind.  It's 
like  seething  a  kid  in  its  mother's  milk." 

«  Yes."  Hope's  pale  lips  quivered.  "  We'll  talk  of  it 
to-morrow.  Good  night,  Joe.  I  feel  tired  —  sick." 

"  Good  night ;  "  and  the  two  women  kissed  each  other. 

Then  Hope  crept  off  up  stairs.  It  seemed  at  first  as 
if  her  feet  would  refuse  to  carry  her.  She  did  not  even 
get  a  light,  but  in  the  darkness  and  silence  found  her 
way  into  bed,  and  lay  there  shivering  and  exhausted. 
It  had  been  such  a  great  blow.  To  lose  confidence  in 
Stephen,  to  think  of  the  fearful  crime  he  had  committed 
for  that  paltry  sum  of  money  !  And  how  he  had  grown 


TWO   WOMEN.  195 

rich  —  She  wanted  to  believe  it  an  accident,  but  her 
whole  nature  seemed  to  revolt  against  this,  much  as  she 
loved  and  pitied  Stephen.  And  that  he  could  have 
taken  her  to  his  heart ! 

She  did  not  sleep  at  all.  Nearly  all  night  she  lay 
with  her  eyes  wide  open.  After  midnight  the  moon 
came  up  and  flooded  the  room  with  its  cold,  pale  light. 
Sometimes  a  fiery  flash  of  fever  tortured,  her,  then  a 
chill,  that  nearly  froze  the  blood  in  her  veins.  It 
seemed  to  her  she  lived  ages  in  that  one  night. 

Joe  sat  by  the  fire.  In  her  confused  and  wandering 
way  she  was  trying  to  unravel  th*e  tangled  web,  and  see 
who  was  right.  Just  now  she  loved  Stephen  with  a 
sort  of  tigerish  fierceness.  To  see  another  woman  his, 
to  have  him  lavish  caresses  upon  her,  to  be  put  aside 
completely,  was  what  she  could  not  endure.  Pity  her, 
too.  Life  is  so  hard  to  some  of  us,  and  love  is  cruel. 

Two  very  strange  days  passed  over  them.  They 
made  talk  of  common  occurrences ;  they  went  through 
with  their  ordinary  duties ;  but  one  subject  was  not 
touched  upon.  They  avoided  each  other's  eyes,  and 
somehow  both  came  to  have  a  guilty  feeling,  as  if  they 
were  about  some  crime. 

On  the  third  day  Hope  did  not  go  to  school  as  usual. 
At  ten,  after  spending  an  hour  in  her  room,  she  came 
down  in  her  thick  gray  dress.  There  was  a  stony, 
settled  expression  in  her  face,  a  sinking  of  the  lines 
about  the  mouth,  and  a  dark  shade  under  the  eyes. 
Even  her  voice  had  changed. 
13 


196  STEPHEN  DANE. 

"  Joe,"  she  began,  with  a  hollow,  tremulous  sound, 
"are  you  well  enough  to  go  out  for  a  walk?  It's  a 
lovely  day." 

It  was  bright  and  sunny. 

"  I  could."     Joe  glanced  up  wistfully.     «  Why  ?  " 

"Don't  ask  me  any  questions,  please.  It  is  best  for 
you  not  to  know  anything.  Don't  tell  Stephen  of  our 
talk.  Comfort  him  all  you  can,  and  make  him  forget 
me.  And  now  put  on  your  bonnet  and  go  out  for  an 
hour.  Just  let  me  kiss  you  once.  You  have  been  so 
kind  to  me  !  I  want  you  to  forgive  me  for  all  the  pain 
and  suffering  I've  cause'd  you.  I  know  now  what  it  is." 

But  the  kiss  ended  in  sobs.  Since  that  fatal  night 
Hope  had  been  too  deeply  stunned  for  tears.  They 
both  wept. 

"O,  Hope,"  —  Joe's  voice  was  broken  and  repentant, 
—  "  stay.  Don't  go.  I'll  give  up  all  claim  on  Stephen. 
He  may  love  you  ;  he  may  devote  his  whole  life  to  you, 
and  I'll  look  on,  never  saying  a  word.  Only  stay." 

"It  isn't  that,  Joe.  It's  the  insurmountable  barrier 
God  placed  between  us.  I  should  make  Stephen  mis- 
erable if  I  staid." 

"But  what  will  you  do? " 

w  It  is  best  you  should  not  know.  At  present  I  am 
provided  for.  I  shall  never  do  anything  for  which  you 
or  Stephen  would  be  sorry.  I  cannot  tell  you  more 
than  that.  Now  you  must  go." 

Joe  gave  her  a  wild,  beseeching  look.     Hope  was  the 


TWO    WOMEN.  197 

stronger.  She  brought  Joe's  shawl  and  bonnet,  wrapped 
her  with  tender  care,  led  her  through  the  hall,  and  gave 
her  one  convulsive  kiss.  When  the  door  closed,  Hope 
groped  her  way  back  as  if  she  had  been  blind.  For  a 
moment  the  whole  sacrifice  appeared  useless.  And  then 
the  room  seemed  to  run  with  seas  of  crimson  blood. 
A  sick  shudder  crept  over  her. 

Presently,  a  hackman  drove  up  to  the  door.  Katy 
came  in  wide-eyed  wonder. 

"You're  not  goin'  away,  Miss  Hope?" 

"Yes.  I  want  you  to  give  this  to  Miss  Joe,  and  this 
t6  Mr.  Dane  when  he  comes  home,"  and  she  handed 
her  a  little  packet. 

"You'm  not  goin'  to  'lope?"  and  Katy  started  in 
affright. 

The  man  had  brought  down  her  trunk.  She  gave 
Katy's  black  hand  a  fond,  lingering  squeeze,  uttered  a 
broken  good-by,  and  before  Katy  could  recover  herself, 
the  hack  dashed  away.  She  went  back  to  the  kitchen, 
talking  out  her  astonishment  with  herself. 

On  Joe's  return,  she  brought  the  two  notes  ;  but  Joe 
was  in  no  condition  to  talk.  Now  that  the  step  had 
been  taken,  a  wild  consternation  filled  every  pulse.  She 
looked  helplessly  at  Katy ;  she  stretched  out  her  hands 
in  a  strange  terror ;  the  whole  world  seemed  drifting 
away.  She  tried  to  call  on  Hope,  on  Stephen,  but  her 
tongue  was  paralyzed.  And  then  came  darkness, 
peace. 


198  STEPHEN   DANE. 

Stephen's  business  being  ended  sooner  than  he  ex- 
pected, he  hurried  home,  eager  to  see  Hope,  his  brain 
filled  with  delicious  visions.  He  found  Joe  in  the 
stupor  of  fever,  quite  unconscious,  and  a  note  from 
Hope  that  gave  him  a  shock  half  depriving  him  of  his 
faculties.  He  had  found  Joe's  also,  and  read  it.  Hope 
had  worded  it  so  carefully  that  no  one  could  have 
suspected  Joe  of  being  aware  of  her  intentions. 

To  Stephen  she  said  she  had  been  studying  her  own 
heart,  and  found  that  becoming  his  wife  was  an  impossi- 
bility. She  was  sorry  for  having  misled  him,  but  she 
had  not  then  known  her  true  feelings.  She  begged  him 
to  forget  her — she  was  not  worth  his  remembrance. 
He  had  performed  a  more  than  friend's  duty  towards 
her,  and  she  implored  him  to  believe  her  grateful.  It 
would  be  useless  to  search  for  her,  she  said,  as,  if  he 
found  her,  a  return  would  be  quite  out  of  the  question. 
The  whole  tone  of  the  note  was  curt  and  cold.  It 
pained  Stephen  cruelly.  That  to  Joe  was  so  tender ! 

Poor  Hope !  Her  heart  had  well  nigh  broken  over 
them  both.  If  she  had  said  to  Stephen  half  of  what  she 
longed  to,  she  could  never  have  gone  away.  In  her  rare 
delicacy  she  could  not  humiliate  him  by  even  hinting  at 
his  secret.  And  so  she  had  guarded  every  word,  been 
cold  when  her  whole  seul  was  overflowing  with  love, 
precise  and  formal  when  every  nerve  was  in  a  wild  rack 
of  anguish.  More  than  once  she  had  paused  in  the 


TWO    WOMEN.  199 

writing,  and  believed  herself  unable  to  proceed,  until  an 
inexorable  fate  goaded  her  on. 

For  a  fortnight  Josephine  Dane's  senses  were  closed  to 
all  outward  events.  Occasionally  she  was  restless ;  but 
then  she  would  only  wring  her  hands  and  exclaim  in 
pathetic  tones,  "  O,  dear  !  O,  dear  !  "  The  rest  of  the 
time  she  lay  in  a  stupor,  taking  what  they  gave  her,  but 
never  returning  the  least  sign  of  recognition.  Stephen 
watched  over  her  with  a  strange,  yearning  love,  such  as 
one  gives  to  a  helpless  child.  And  for  some  reason  he 
was  doubly  anxious  to  have  her  live. 

What  the  soul  passed  through  in  that  time  poor  Joe 
never  remembered,  and  perhaps  it  was  as  well.  There 
are  some  awful  secrets  in  nature  that  it  is  not  wise  to 
penetrate.  A  confused,  troublous  pain  was  all  the  im- 
pression she  had,  until  one  day  she  opened  her  eyes, 
sadly  weak,  but  with  a  clear  vision.  This  was  her 
room.  By  degrees  the  furniture  grew  familiar.  Oppo- 
site there,  by  the  window,  sat  a  placid  woman,  past 
middle  life,  her  soft  brown  hair  gathered  under  a  plain 
cap,  her  face  sweet  and  patient.  She  was  sewing  slow- 
ly, pausing  now  and  then  to  glance  out  on  the  street. 
Through  the  window  floated  a  quivering  haze  of  golden 
sunshine.  Beyond,  the  blue  sky  bounded  all. 

Joe  drew  a  long  breath.  So  heavenly  peaceful !  If 
she  could  lie  there  forever  at  rest  —  but  she  had  a  vague 
idea  that  there  was  something  else  to  her  life.  A  pain 
and  dreariness,  a  want  that  could  not  be  satisfied. 


200  STEPHEN  DANE. 

Then  she  wondered  how  it  would  be  to  die.  Was 
God  as  kind  and  pitiful  as  they  said?  Did  He  take 
poor,  wearied  souls  in  His  arms,  and  whisper  over  them 
some  words  of  everlasting  peace?  For  life  was  thorny. 
Rose-lined  paths  were  but  for  few.  None  had  ever  blos- 
somed in  her  way.  And  then  she  asked  the  vague  ques- 
tion we  all  ask  at  some  time,  why  she  had  been  born 
at  all. 

Presently  old  memories  began  to  throng  about  her. 
Had  Hope  come  from  school  yet?  Ah  !  what  was  this 
sharp  pang?  Was  Hope  going  away?  What  did  they 
say  that  night?  Perhaps  Stephen  had  found  her. 

By  degrees  Joe  recalled  all,  just  as  if  she  had  fallen, 
asleep  yesterday,  and  wakened  this  morning.  The  sun 
was  going  over  westward ;  so  it  could  not  be  morning. 
And  why  was  this  strange  woman  here  ? 

She  saw  the  light  fading  out,  but  asked  no  question. 
She  did  not  even  stir,  until  a  step  in  the  hall  roused  her. 
A  light  tap  at  the  door,  which  was  opened  immediately 
afterwards,  and  some  one  came  to  her  bedside.  The 
woman  by  the  window  rose,  and  put  aside  her  sewing. 

Joe  held  out  her  hand,  though,  for  the  weak  tears  in 
her  eyes,  she  could  not  see.  But  through  her  pale  lips 
trembled  the  word,  "  Stephen  !  " 

"  Dear  Joe  ! "     He  bent  over  and  kissed  her  tenderly. 

"How  long  have  I  been  sick?"  she  asked. 


TWO   WOMEN.  201 

"Nearly  three  weeks.  But  you  are  improving  now; 
have  been  for  several  days." 

"  Have  you  found  her,  Stephen  ?  " 

There  was  a  convulsive  pressure  of  Joe's  hand,  and 
the  strong  man  swayed  almost  as  if  he  would  have 
fallen. 

"  I  have  not  searched." 

w  Why  ?  "     A  mortal  terror  seized  Joe. 

"  Some  day  you  shall  know.  It  was  her  own  wish. 
You  are  too  weak  to  be  excited  by  it  now." 

«  No.     What  did  you  think  ?  " 

"Katy  suggested,  — it  was  wild,  I  know ;  but  did  you 
ever  dream  she  cared  for  some  one,  —  that  she  went 
away  with  him  ?  " 

Should  she  let  him  believe  it? 

"  You  had  no  quarrel  ?  But  I  need  not  ask.  I  saw 
her  note  to  you.  And  Katy  told  me  she  went  in  your 
absence.  We  must  learn  to  do  without  her,  though  God 
knows  we  shall  miss  her  sorely." 

"  Are  you  talking  to  her  ?  "  interposed  the  nurse. 

"  She  has  recognized  me,  Mrs.  Beswick.  She  is  really 
better." 

w  The  doctor,  you  know,  was  afraid  of  excitement." 

"  It  will  not  injure  me.     I  shall  get  well." 

Stephen  noticed  how  inexpressibly  dreary  the  tone 
was,  how  utterly  devoid  of  hope ;  and  it  pained  him  to 
the  heart.  They  must  be  more  to  each  other  now,  since 


202  STEPHEN  DANE. 

the  one  who  could  have  been  so  much  to  both  was 
gone. 

Joe  recovered  slowly.  April  came  up  with  her  bland 
airs  and  wooing  sunshine.  A  faint  suggestion  of  south- 
ern bloom  stealing  through  the  lattice,  trees  swelling 
with  their  buds,  and  a  stray  bird  now  and  then  piping 
his  lay  in  a  tender  voice.  What  cared  she  for  them  all  ? 
What  was  bird,  or  bee,  or  sunshine  to  her  ? 

Never  had  Stephen  been  so  tender.  It  might  be  love, 
but  not  the  kind  that  dwelt  in  his  sad  eyes,  dimly  shad- 
owed forth,  for  another.  She  remembered  many  springs 
agone,  when  this  fear  had  first  seized  her,  —  how  she 
had  watched  that  shady  light  come  and  go,  and  learned 
too  surely  that  he  was  drifting  away  from  her.  Why 
had  she  not  ceased  to  love  him?  ah,  why?  When  God 
made  a  woman's  heart  hungry  for  love,  did  he  mean  it 
should  go  forever  unsatisfied? 

By  degrees  matters' resumed  their  olden  course.  Mrs. 
Beswick  went  away ;  Joe  was  able  to  go  up  arid  down 
stairs,  to  ride  out,  and  indulge  in  an  occasional  walk. 
Katy  petted  and  scolded  her  as  if  she  were  a  child.  She 
seemed  so  weak  and  dependent  now  that  she  was  glad  to 
have  some  one  stronger,  on  whom  she  could  lean. 

The  first  surprise  and  grief  occasioned  by  Hope's  de- 
parture had  worn  off*.  Katy  was  garrulous,  to  be  sure, 
and  from  her  Joe  learned  all  that  she  had  missed  of 
Stephen's  sorrow.  The  fond  old  servant  was  loud  in 


TWO   WOMEN.  203 

her  lamentations,  and  stubborn  in  her  faith  that  Hope 
had  gone  off  with  some  gallant  young  lover.  Joe  feebly 
said,  "I  don't  think  it,  Katy.  No  one  ever  came  to  the 
house  that  she  seemed  interested  in,  or  for  whom  she 
cared."  But  Katy  still  persisted.  She  had  imbued 
Stephen  with  this  belief,  because  there  was  no  other  that 
could  account  so  well,  not  only  for  the  young  girl's  de- 
parture, as  for  the  coldness  of  her  note.  Joe's  dan- 
gerous illness  at  this  period  had  roused  his  fears  and 
sympathies  in  another  direction,  and  perhaps  prevented 
his  yielding  to  the  passionate  grief  that  might  otherwise 
have  absorbed  him. 

The  shock  had  brought  him  back  to  his  olden  self — 
caused  him  to  think  of  all  that  lay  between.  Had  he 
any  real  right  to  Hope's  love?  Was  there  not  a  curse 
upon  his  very  life,  a  stain  that  could  never  be  washed 
away  ?  She  did  not  know  this ;  but  all  unconsciously 
she  had  become  an  avenger  in  the  hands  of  God.  And 
since  he  could  not  contest  this  judgment,  Stephen  Dane 
bowed  his  head. 


.204  STEPHEN    DANE. 


XI. 

SAD  HEAKTS. 

A  SLOW-PASSING  summer  full  of  sweets.  A 
quiet  house,  just  as  if  some  one  had  been  carried 
forth  for  burial.  A  yearning  and  a  longing  for  a  pres- 
ence that  came  not  —  never  would  again,  they  both  said, 
fearfully,  to  themselves. 

They  had  fallen  into  a  strange  manner  of  living.  Both 
were  reserved,  though  not  from  any  feeling  of  pride  or 
selfishness.  Indeed,  it  was  a  peculiar  state,  brought 
about  by  a  peculiar  combination.  No  explanation  had 
ever  passed  between  them.  It  may  appear  strange,  yet 
you  will  sometimes  know  of  two  people  living  together 
through  months  of  silence,  because  the  right  moment 
passed  without  the  needed  words  being  spoken,  and  no 
other  ever  came. 

Stephen  fancied  at  first  that  Joe  might  know  more 
of  Hope's  heart  than  he  had  learned.  But  all  mention 
of  her  departure  distressed  Joe  so  greatly,  that,  from 
natural  kindliness,  he  resolved  to  avoid  it.  Each  day 
it  seemed  to  her  she  was  growing  more  positively  afraid 


SAD   HEARTS.  205, 

of  Stephen.  She  understood,  in  a  vague  way,  that  it 
was  Hope  who  had  drawn  them  nearer  together,  who 
had  rounded  the  sharp  points  of  each  nature,  and  soft- 
ened the  asperities,  rendering  home  such  a  bright,  en- 
chanting place.  There  was  no  one  now  to  make  them 
laugh  with  gay  little  sallies ;  no  one  to  sing  through 
summer  twilights ;  no  soft  arms  to  steal  around  her 
neck,  the  little  hands  clasping  to  make  a  rest  for  her 
chin.  "  Dear  Joe,  you  are  so  kind  !  "  How  many  times 
she  had  heard  the  words !  Nothing  now  to  break  this 
chilling,  awful  dread  that  threw  its  shadow  over  the 
house. 

If  Joe  had  recovered  her  full  strength  and  sturdiness  ; 
if  she  could  have  gone  to  the  stores  and  to  market ; 
cheapened  tradesmen  and  scolded  huckster  women ; 
swept  the  house  and  weeded  the  garden,  —  she  might 
have  regained  her  spirits  in  some  degree.  Instead, 
everything  was  a  burden.  She  was  glad  to  have  Katy 
relieve  her.  Some  mornings  she  felt  so  weary  that  she 
did  not  come  down  until  after  Stephen  had  breakfasted 
and  gone.  Then  she  idled  about,  dusting  the  library 
and  parlor,  sat  down  by  the  open  windows,  and  gazed 
vacantly  at  the  fur-off,  luminous  sky.  Was  there  One 
there  who  knew  what  she  needed,  and  would  take  pity 
on  her?  She  was  so  tired  with  this  endless,  tangled 
mass  of  thought.  She  was  so  pained  with  Stephen's 
sad  face.  If  she  had  not  told  Hope  ! 

Consequently,   after  the  first  improvement,  she  fell 


206  STEPHEN   DANE. 

into  a  hopeless,  apathetical  state,  growing  thinner  and 
paler,  and  so  unlike  the  Joe  of  other  days.  Stephen 
took  her  to  the  sea-side  ;  the  air  was  too  strong,  and  made 
her  cough ;  then  to  pretty  inland  resorts ;  but  nothing 
roused  her.  She  was  no  great  lover  of  nature  ;  she  had 
few  resources  of  her  own  for  such  a  period  as  this.  At 
times  even  Stephen's  generous  care  fretted  her,  and  she 
was  cold  and  ungracious,  when  her  heart  was  almost 
breaking  with  pity  and  remorse. 

And  Stephen,  unable  to  read  her  heart,  bore  patiently 
with  her,  his  own  heavy  enough.  There  was  with  him 
no  lack  of  subjects  for  thought.  Almost  daily  he  went 
over  the  past,  looking  at  its  blackness,  its  foul  deeds, 
and  abhorring  himself  in  the  deepest  humiliation.  Yet 
where  could  he  have  made  one  step  different  ?  A  strange 
fate  had  led  him  on,  had  compelled  him,  as  it  were,  to 
bear  other  burdens  than  his  own.  But  the  most  pain- 
ful of  all  to  him  was  his  utter  inability  to  make  restitu- 
tion. He  fancied  at  times,  because  he  had  dared  to  love 
Hope,  God  had  set  this  seal  upon  his  punishment  — 
never  to  know  how  she  fared,  or  what  she  might  be 
called  upon  to  suffer.  He  fairly  hated  the  gold  that 
flowed  in  upon  him  so  lavishly.  He  dispensed  it  with 
so  free  a  hand  that  friends  were  filled  with  wonder. 

He  had  made  some  effort  to  find  Hope,  in  spite  of  her 
request.  Not  to  see  her,  but  to  make  over  to  her  the 
portion  that  was  so  truly  hers.  He  had  supposed  she 
would  go  to  New  York,  but  all  search  there  proved 


SAD   HEARTS.  207 

fruitless.  So  there  was  nothing  but  endurance,  and 
that  is  always  doubly  hard  when  the  light  of  faith  has 
died  out,  as  it  had  with  him. 

As  I  said,  it  was  a  dreary  summer,  for  all  its  bloom, 
and  richness,  and  the  variety  Stephen  was  fain  to  give 
it.  Sometimes  it  almost  seemed  to  him  as  if  Joe  moped 
in  sullen  perverseness,  and  it  was  difficult  to  preserve 
his  own  equanimity. 

A  woman  with  a  different  nature  could  not  have 
hidden  her  secret  so  effectually.  I  question  if  Joe  could, 
under  other  circumstances.  There  were  times  when  she 
resolved  to  tell  Stephen ;  but  in  their  more  confidential 
moments,  some  wretched  indecision  held  her  back.  For 
there  was  to  Joe  a  strange,  awful  fear,  that  chilled  her  very 
soul,  an  almost  presentiment  if  you  will,  that  in  a  little 
time  neither  love  nor  hate  would  matter  much,  to  her. 

One  August  afternoon  she  went  out  for  a  ramble. 
The  air  in  the  house  seemed  stifling  her ;  the  quiet  street, 
with  its  infrequent  passengers,  was  lonelier  than  a  desert. 
The  air  had  been  cooled  by  a  shower  the  preceding  even- 
ing, and  wras  fresh  and  fragrant  with  the  peculiar  ripeness 
of  the  later  summer.  Chirping  birds,  droning  bees, 
and  bright  winged  flies  flitted  about.  A  pleasant  river 
sound  broke  on  her  ear  from  the  not  distant  Schuylkill. 
Boats  skimming  the  water  —  the  plash  of  oars,  or  the 
whirl  of  a  brisk  little  wheel,  scattering  the  spray  in  every 
direction.  How  often  she  and  Hope  had  sat  on  the 
deck,  and  watched  the  green  shores  as  they  glided  by ! 


208  STEPHEN   DANE. 

A  sound  broke  on  her  ear  —  the  toll  of  a  bell.  Slow 
and  solemn,  falling  on  this  clear  air,  and  being  carried 
inconceivable  distances,  dying  sadly  out  at  length  over 
the  river.  Was  some  human  soul  passing  over  another 
river  ?  If  a  day  came  when  the  bells  should  toll  in  this 
manner  for  her  ? 

Joe  shuddered.  We  all  cling  to  life,  and  are  filled 
with  dread  in  such  moments  as  these,  when  the  awful 
realities  are  thrust  before  our  vision. 

Turning  a  corner,  she  saw  at  the  end  of  the  street  a 
little  chapel.  She  had  heard  of  the  place,  but  had  never 
been  there.  The  street  was  shady  and  cool ;  so  she 
wandered  on,  listening  to  the  slow  sound,  and  thinking 
some  "vague  and  troubled  thoughts.  A  few  persons 
entered  the  churchyard  gate  from  time  to  time ;  then 
the  hearse  and  carriages  came  up,  and  Joe  quickened 
her  pace. 

The  clergyman  walked  down  the  aisle  in  his  white 
robe  — a  young  man  with  a  reverent  air.  His  rich, 
deep  voice  broke  the  solemn  stillness  with  that  most 
glorious  of  all  passages  from  Holy  Writ,  — 

"lam  the  resurrection  and  the  life" 

Was  it  the  tone,  or  the  words,  or  the  scene? 
Josephine  Dane  fell  on  her  knees  in  the  obscure  corner 
she  had  slipped  into,  and  remained  there  all  through  the 
service.  She  was  not  weeping,  although  she  strained 
her  fingers  so  tightly  over  her  eyes;  she  was  hardly 
listening.  She  heard  the  words  like  one  in  a  dream, 


SAD   HEARTS.  209 

and  was  guided  more  by  the  impression  they  made  upon 
her,  than  any  distinct  power  inherent  in  them.  A 
woman  this  was,  for  whom  the  burial  service  was  being 
said.  Husband  and  children  were  there.  A  happy 
woman,  a  woman  beloved.  O,  why  had  not  God 
taken  her  instead?  Of  what  avail  was  her  poor, 
starved,  miserable  life  ! 

The  clergyman  headed  the  procession  again  as  it 
moved  out  of  church.  Such  a  kindly,  pitying  face  !  If 
it  would  turn  once  upon  her  ! 

It  did  —  a  brief  glance,  a  sort  of  startled,  questioning 
look.  And  then  Joe  bowed  her  head  again  until  they 
had  all  passed,  and  the  last  footfall  died  away  on  the 
gravel  path  outside.  She  was  so  weak  and  weary,  it 
seemed  at  first  as  if  she  could  never  get  home  again. 

It  was  quite  late,  and  Stephen  sat  on  the  porch,  under 
the  swinging  vines. 

"Joe,"  he  said,  softly,  "you  have  walked  too  far." 

His  tone  unnerved  her.  She  tottered  a  little,  but  he 
caught  her  in  his  arms  —  held  her  there  a  moment  while 
a  sort  of  convulsive  sob  shook  her. 

"  Poor  Joe !  If  I  could  do  anything  to  make  you 
well  and  happy  !  You  have  never  been  like  yourself 
since  she  went  away." 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  Hope's  name  since  her 
departure. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  one  word  from  Stephen 
Dane  could  have  made  Joe  both  well  and  happy.  Xow 


210  STEPHEN   DANE. 

it  was  too  late.  Only  God's  cure  for  burdened  souls 
could  ever  bring  peace  to  hers. 

It  is  so  strange  to  come  upon  one  day  in  our  lives 
when  we  begin  to  feel  the  things  of  earth  slipping  away, 
and  cease  to  care.  We  hold  ourselves  almost  in  awe. 

"  No,"  Joe  repeated,  vacantly,  "  I  have  never  been 
myself  since  then." 

"  If  I  could  find  her —  for  your  sake." 

"For  your  own,  Stephen.  I  shall  not  need  any  one 
long." 

A  wandering  color  flushed  his  face,  and  his  whole 
frame  quivered. 

"  You  are  low  spirited,  Joe.  But  you  are  not  re- 
covering, as  I  hoped.  If  I  could  find  her!  She  is 
another's  perhaps,  but  she  would  come  to  you." 

"She  is  not  another's,  I  know.  I  sent  her  away. 
Look  at  me  and  hate  me,  Stephen ! " 

Joe's  tone  was  desperate.  There  was  a  fixed  and 
stony  expression  in  her  eye. 

"  You  are  mistaken.  If  she  had  cared  to  stay,  if — 
O,  Joe  I  I  loved  her !  She  knew  it.  That  sent  her 
away.  My  cruel  impatience,  my  mad,  fatal  passion ! 
Strange  that  the  highest  and  holiest  feeling  of  our 
nature  should  rise  up  and  become  a  curse  —  torment  us 
with  unavailing  regrets.  You  don't  know  anything 
about  it,  Joe,  thank  God !  " 

"  Don't  I ! "  Her  voice  was  hoarse  and  tremulous, 
and  she  broke  away  from  his  clasp.  "  What  have  you 


SAD   HEARTS.  211 

and  she  realized  of  its  torments  !  I  thinlc  if  any  man 
had  loved  me,  had  held  me  in  his  arms,  had  said  the 
words  you  did  to  her,  given  me  the  kisses,  I  could 
defy  all  that  would  come  afterwards.  To  love  without 
these  —  that  is  where  it  stings,  Stephen  !  " 

He  glanced  at*  her  in  amazement.  A  dim  truth 
pierced  his  brain.  Far  back  in  the  past  —  in  another 
and  distant  life,  he  had  indulged  in  a  boyish  fancy  for 
Joe  —  association  mostly.  Did  God  mean  to  curse  him 
on  every  hand,  drag  all  these  old  things  and  thoughts  to 
light  as  a  punishment  ?  Did  he  owe  this  girl  a  debt  that 
could  be  paid  only  in  one  way  ? 

"  Joe,"  —  his  voice  broken  with  infinite  sorrow,  —  "  if 
I  have  sinned  against  you,  can  nothing  make  amends?" 

"O,  Stephen!  I  don't  mean  that  now.  Whatever  I 
may  have  dreamed  in  that  old,  foolish  time,  my  eyes  are 
clear  to-day.  You  have  given  me  all  the  love  that.was 
in  your  heart  for  me.  God  made  her  beautiful  and 
wise,  me  plain  and  ignorant.  I  know  there  are  corners 
in  your  heart  that  I  could  never  have  filled,  true  wife  as 
I  might  have  been  to  you.  Somewhere  you  outgrew 
me.  It  isn't  so  much  the  name,  or  the  right,  — it  is  the 
fitness,  the  consciousness  of  perfect  possession." 

"Where  have  you  learned  all  this,  Joe?"  for  he  was 
startled  at  the  light  in  her  deep*  sad  eyes. 

"I  cannot  tell  you.     It  has  been  coming  by  slow 
degrees.     May  be,  as  we  go  on  to  the  other  country, 
we  see  more  clearly." 
14 


212  STEPHEN   DANE. 

Stephen  clasped  the  bowed  figure  to  his  heart.  There 
was  a  struggle  with  the  tears  in  his  voice,  as  he  said,  — 

"Heaven  knows,  Joe,  I  have  always  given  you  a 
brother's  love.  And  wherein  I  have  sinned,  God  has 
punished  me  sorely.  I  had  no  right  to  dream  of  her." 

"  No."  Joe  raised  her  head  and  faced  him  steadily. 
"  I  told  her  so  that  night.  That  was  why  she  went 
away.  She  could  not  stay  and  be  nothing  to  you.  I 
think  her  nature  was  too  high  and  fine  ever  to  "upbraid 
you  by  a  look.  I  was  wild  and  jealous,  tortured  by 
fierce  passions  ;  but  I  would  have  fought  it  out  by  my- 
self if  I  had  not  known  your  secret." 

She  was  brave  enough  now.  The  burden  she  had 
carried  for  him  she  laid  down  at  last  at  his  feet. 

"  What  do  you  know  ?  "  His  face  was  deathly  white, 
his  hands  trembled,  his  strong  frame  shook  as  with  an 
aguish  chill,  and  the  words  shivered  through  his  pale 
lips  in  gasps.  "  That  horrible  secret !  And  you  have 
kept  silence  all  these  years  !  " 

She  knelt  before  him.  She  clasped  his  knees  with 
her  weak  hands,  and  moaned,  — 

"  I  would  have  borne  more  than  that  for  your  sake, 
Stephen.  Open  shame  and  disgrace  could  not  have 
estranged  me ! " 

"  And  I  was  a  coward  !  But  O,  Joe,  you  don't  know 
how  hard  it  was  !  It  seemed  as  if  God  put  his  poor, 
weak  life  into  my  hands ;  and  then  he  was  my  father, 
too  !  The  sins  of  the  fathers  are  to  be  visited  upon  the 


SAD  HEARTS.  213 

children,  and  so  they  come  to  me,  to  her.  Is  there  no 
end  to  God's  judgments  ?  " 

If  Joe  had  been  pale  before,  a  deadly  terror  crept 
over  her  face  now,  making  it  ghastly.  Her  eyes  stared 
in  a  wild,  wandering  manner,  for  there  came  into  her 
mind  a  thought  that  tortured  her  like  a  thousand 
demons.  What  if  all  this  while  Stephen  had  been 
more  sinned  against  than  sinning?  She  crouched  in  a 
shapeless  mass  there  on  the  step ;  she  stretched  out  her 
hands  imploringly,  and  cried,  — 

"  Tell  me  who  struck  the  fatal  blow,  Stephen  —  not 
you?" 

"My  God,  Joe!  Did  you  believe  that?  Did  you 
tell  her?  " 

The  eyelids  sank  together,  the  whole  frame  lapsed 
into  lifelessness,  but  the  look  of  passionate  pleading 
still  remained. 

Stephen  Dane  had  the  weaknesses  of  humanity.  The 
hot,  indignant  flash  of  conscious  innocence,  so  deeply 
wronged,  so  outraged,  came  first.  And  then  her  love 
—  the  words  she  had  said  —  "  Open  shame  and  disgrace 
could  not  have  estranged  me  "  —  pleaded  powerfully  for 
poor  Joe.  He  stooped  and  gathered  her  in  his  arms  ;  he 
carried  her  to  her  room  and  laid  her  tenderly  on  the 
bed,  chafing  the  cold  hands. 

She  opened  her  eyes  in  a  feeble,,  bewildered  manner, 
shrinking  as  they  met  his,  and  cowering  in  abject 
terror. 


214  STEPHEN   DANE. 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her,  forgiving  her  fully  and 
freely.  Had  it  been  as  she  thought,  her  silence  would 
have  proved  her  rare,  exceeding  devotion. 

"  Dear  Joe,"  he  whispered,  "  there  is  no  stain  of  blood 
on  my  hand.  I  hated  the  man  bitterly,  but  it  never 
came  to  that.  His  meanness  and  injustice  exasperated 
me,  and  some  angry  words  passed  between  us.  I 
grudged  him  his  gold,  but  never  his  life." 

"It  was  uncle  Archy.  O,  Stephen  !  And  "the  hor- 
rible dream  has  ended.  They  are  both  in  their  graves." 

"  Yes.  And,  since  we  have  come  to  it,  let  me  justify 
myself  a  little,  Joe."  And  then  he  told  her  how  he 
had  been  discharged  that  fatal  afternoon,  and  gone  to 
the  woods ;  how  he  had  heard  the  sullen  plash  in  the 
water,  and  upon  reaching  the  spot  had  erased  that  one 
trace  of  crime ;  his  finding  the  money ;  his  fears  and 
resolves ;  his  final  determination  that  he  at  least  would 
not  drag  the  poor  old  man  to  justice.  Holding  her 
hand  all  the  while,  when,  in  her  utter  self-abasement, 
she  would  have  drawn  it  away. 

"  And  that  I  should  have  believed  it  against  you  ! " 
she  moaned. 

"  It  puzzles  me  how  you  could  have  suspected  at 
first." 

"I  will  tell  you.  When  I  am  gone,  Stephen,  I  want 
you  to  forget  me.  J  am  not  worthy  of  the  least  remem- 
brance. Yet  I  think  no  crime  would  ever  have  black- 
ened you  in  my  eyes." 


SAD    HEARTS.  215 

"Must  I  be  less  generous  than  you,  Joe?" 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  What  a  poor,  ignorant 
heathen  she  had  been  in  those  old  times  !  For  now  her 
pale  cheek  was  stained  with  conscious  shame  as  she  de- 
tailed how  she  had  come  in  possession  of  his  secret.  It 
appeared  so  mean  and  unworthy  of  any  womanhood  ! 

He  strove  to  comfort  her.  It  was  a  proof  of  his  own 
generosity  that  he  could  put  by  the  fierce  and  bitter 
pang  tearing  his  heart,  as  he  remembered  Hope  had 
listened  to  this  story,  and  become  homeless  through  its 
influence.  He  crowded  down  his  agony,  and  made  his 
voice  both  strong  and  tender  for  her  sake.  For  there 
was  something  exceedingly  sad  and  touching  in  all  this 
devotion ;  he  could  see  she  had  not  acted  wholly  from 
selfish  motives.  Her  strong  sense  of  right,  though  less 
fine  in  its  perceptions  than  that  of  many  others,  shrank 
from  so  abhorrent  a  union  as  she  believed  this  would  be. 

The  supper-bell  rang,  and  Stephen  went  down  alone. 
He  was  glad  to  send  Katy  to  Joe,  and,  leaning  his  brow 
upon  his  hand,  left  his  cup  of  tea  untasted.  He  was 
not  conscious  of  any  physical  want.  His  brain  was 
busy  with  the  strange  path  wherein  he  had  walked,  so 
full  of  mistakes  and  misunderstandings.  Was  God 
really  watching  over  him,  and  giving  him  those  things 
that  were  best  for  him?  A  bleak,  barren,  desolate  life  ! 
The  prosperity  he  had  craved,  the  wealth  and  the  ambi- 
tions he  had  so  madly  longed  for,  answered  sharp,  and 
turned  into  a  curse  !  What  if  he  had  gone  on  with  that 


216  STEPHEN  DANE. 

old,  simple  life  in  Tregony,  married  Joe,  reared  up 
children  whose  needs  would  be  simply  those  of  the 
body?  Would  he  have  been  better,  happier? 

O,  no,  no !  He  was  blind  still,  and  could  not  see 
clearly  into  God's  designs.  These  pure  longings,  these 
high  ambitions,  that  were  not,  after  all,  perverted  to 
mere  selfish  uses,  meant  something.  God  knew  when 
he  placed  them  there.  And  when  any  soul  rose  out  of 
its  slough,  and  took  upon  it  a  new  form,  came  nearer 
to  the  All-wise,  surely  he  saw  and  cared  for  it,  pitied 
its  griefs  and  pardoned  its  mistakes.  Some  day  he 
should  know.  He  held  fast  by  his  faith.  Bruised  and 
wounded,  agonizing  in  keenest  pain,  he  would  still  be- 
lieve in  the  God  who  had  brought  him  thus  far  through 
the  wilderness. 

He  could  see  wherein  he  had  failed  with  Hope.  He 
should  have  told  her  the  truth.  It  was  not  his  hand 
that  had  placed  a  bar  between.  But  he  had  been 
•  afraid.  His  coward  soul  had  shrunk  from  the  thought 
of  losing  her,  the  one  thing  his  heart  craved.  And 
God,  through  other  agencies,  had  taken  her  away. 
Her  soul  was  too  pure  and  high  to  mate  with  anything 
so  stained  and  worn  as  his. 

He  went  out  and  walked  up  and  down  the  garden- 
path.  One  duty  was  before  him,  one  chance  of  resti- 
tution still  remained.  He  could  make  Joe's  short  life 
blessed  beyond  compare  to  her.  I  will  confess  to  you 
that  he  shrank  a  little  from  the  sacrifice  at  first.  Hope 


SAD   HEARTS.  217 

Vennard  was  the  only  woman  he  had  cared  to  call  his, 
and  failing  in  that,  he  desired  to  keep  his  whole  life 
sacred  to  her.  Yet  Joe's  confession  effectually  precluded 
any  lingering  dreams.  If  she  could  have  forgiven,  she 
would  not  have  penned  those  cold  words  —  the  last  re- 
membrance of  her  presence  that  was  to  greet  his  eyes. 
Some  lurking  tenderness  would  have  betrayed  itself. 
Therefore,  if  he  should  ever  find  her,  all  that  past 
must  be  a  sealed  book.  He  would  never  speak  of  it 
again. 

I  cannot  describe  to  you  the  struggle  in  the  man's 
mind.  But  the  nobler  part  of  his  nature  conquered  — 
and  there  was  much  that  was  grand  in  Stephen  Dane. 
His  resolve  once  taken,  he  would  not  flinch. 

Katy  had  cried  over  Joe's  white  face,  and  her  inability 
to  eat.  She  had  undressed  her,  and  arranged  her  pil- 
lows with  tender  care ;  and  though,  when  she  returned 
to  her  kitchen,  Joe's  wistful  eyes  followed  her,  the  poor 
girl  would  not  beg  for  Stephen.  Unwittingly  she  had 
worked  him  misery  enough. 

He  came  at  length.  The  young  moon  was  climbing 
over  fleecy  drifts  that  melted  into  blue.  Up  in  the  hol- 
low of  the  luminous  sky  great  stars  pulsed  and  throbbed, 
beating  out  the  giant  heart  of  Nature.  Soft  airs  stole 
in  through  the  open  window,  dewy  sweetnesses  from 
river  and  mead,  finding  their  way  through  the  city. 

Joe  held  out  her  trembling  hand.  "Forgive  it  all, 
Stephen,"  she  said,  softly.  "  I  shall  not  be  here  long. 


218  STEPHEN   DANE. 

After  that,  I  want  you  to  find  her,  and  tell  her  how  I 
sinned  against  you  both." 

"Joe,"  —  his  voice  was  solemn  and  tender,  —  "we 
have  all  made  mistakes.  I,  too,  have  sinned.  I  have 
been  blind  and  proud.  But  if  my  love  will  comfort 
you,  it  is  all  yours  now." 

"No."  There  was  a  little  thrill  of  delight  in  her 
voice,  too.  "  I  don't  want  it  all,  Stephen.  The  old, 
jealous  torture  has  died  away,  and  I  am  coming  to 
peace,  rest.  I  am  not  ungrateful,  nor  ruled  by  any 
mean,  sullen  spirit.  Heaven  knows  I  ought  to  have 
done  with  all  such  now.  And  I  take  my  share  of  your 
love  gladly." 

"  Which  must  be  all,  Joe.  Let  me  make  amends  for 
the  past,  wherein  I  have  made  you  suffer.  Until  God 
separates  us  —  " 

She  guessed  what  he  would  have  said,  for  her  wo- 
man's intuition  had  been  quickened.  She  placed  her 
•hand  gently  over  his  lips. 

"  No,  Stephen.  Hope's  place  must  be  kept  sacred, 
if  she  never  comes  to  fill  it.  But  she  will.  And  hav- 
ing your  love,  I  am  content." 

"  You  don't  quite  understand  it,"  he  said,  gently. 
"  When  I  told  my  love,  I  did  not  dare  repeat  the  story. 
I  had  a  misgiving  of  the  shock  it  would  cause  her. 
God  did  not  mean  that  she  should  be  mine." 

"  We  don't  know  what  God  means  until  it  comes. 
We  have  only  to  wait.  I  told  you  before  that  I  could 


SAD   HEARTS.  219 

not  fill  your  heart,  and  a  name  was  nothing.  But  you 
are  princely  generous,  Stephen." 

"Will  you  take  the  gift?" 

"No,"  softly  and  tearfully.  "Only  love  me  to  the 
end." 

They  clasped  hands  in  the  silence,  coming  nearer  to 
each  other  then  than  ever  before  in  their  whole  lives. 
And  both  hearts  yearned  for  the  absent  one. 

Far  into  the  night  Stephen  Dane  sat  and  watched  his 
cousin.  When  the  wind  died  down  he  fanned  her 
gently,  and  with  tenderest  hands  put  aside  the  heavy 
hair  clustering  about  her  temples.  Poor  Joe,  how  hard 
life  had  been  with  her  ! 

The  next  day  Stephen  consulted  an  eminent  physi- 
cian. It  was,  as  he  had  feared,  too  late  for  recovery. 
But  Joe  no  longer  cared  for  life. 

The  shock  and  her  remorse  made  fearful  inroads  upon 
her  enfeebled  frame.  She  amended  a  little,  so  that  she 
came  down  stairs,  and  walked  about  the  garden.  Every 
day  Stephen  took  her  to  drive.  Such  lovely  haunts  as 
he  found,  full  of  the  later  summer's  greenery  and  fra- 
grance !  Rambles  through  quiet  lanes,  or  by  the  wind- 
ing river ;  tender  talks,  for  there  was  nothing  withheld 
now.  It  seemed  to  Joe  as  if  she  was  entering  heaven 
almost  before  her  time. 

As  the  days  wore  on,  an  odd  wish  came  to  her.  She 
wanted  to  see  the  clergyman  who  had  read  the  funeral 
service  that  had  so  deeply  impressed  her.  Stephen 


220  STEPHEN   DANE. 

found  him  easily  —  a  Mr.  Leighton,  a  stranger  in  the 
place,  who  had  been  at  his  post  barely  two  months. 

A  very  curious  mood  took  possession  of  Joe  on  this 
afternoon.  She  begged  Katy  to  braid  her  hair  as 
Hope  used,  and  wreathe  stems  of  Madeira  blossoms  in 
it.  Her  snowy  wrapper  was  as  faultless  as  Katy's 
fond  care  could  make  it,  and  the  loving  heart  insisted 
upon  her  being  adorned  with  a  knot  of  scarlet  ribbon 
at  her  throat  —  "Jest  as  dear  Miss  Hope  used  to 
fix  it." 

Joe  sighed. 

"  I  'clare,  Miss  Joe,  you  look  handsome  as  a  pic- 
tur' ! " 

The  coming  death  was  giving  her  a  strange  beauty. 
The  features  were  large  and  irregular,  but  the  eyes 
held  in  them  a  wonderful  light ;  the  skin  was  trans- 
parent, with  a  slight  fever  flush  on  the  cheeks.  She 
had  subsided  into  a  languor  of  movement  that  was 
grace,  compared  with  her  former  abruptness,  and  her 
voice  had  grown  low  and  soft.  Sitting  in  an  easy- 
chair  by  the  open  window,  she  watched  the  vines 
swaying  idly  in  the  light  air,  until  Katy  announced,  — 

"Mr.  Leighton." 

The  young  man  paused  an  instant,  then  walked 
directly  over  to  her,  holding  out  his  hand  frankly. 

"Do  not  rise,"  he  said  in  the  tone  she  recognized  so 
well.  "  I  am  glad  to  find  you  able  to  enjoy  this  lovely 
day.  Have  I  not  seen  you  before  ?  " 


SAD    HEARTS.  221 

"I  was  at  the  chapel  nearly  a  month  ago,  at  a 
funeral,"  she  answered. 

"  Yes,  I  remember  now.  You  were  kneeling,  and 
your  paleness  attracted  me.  I  was  a  stranger,  and 
hardly  knew  the  congregation." 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  went  that  day ;  I  was  very 
wretched.  Something  in  your  voice  soothed  me,  and 
I  wanted  to  hear  you  talk  again." 

"Thank  you."  He  glanced  away  from  her  for  a 
moment  to  a  picture  in  an  oval  frame,  hanging  in  the 
recess  by  the  chimney.  It  was  an  exquisite  ivorytype 
of  Hope.  She  noted  the  direction  of  his  eyes,  and 
glanced  also. 

"  Is  she  not  lovely  ?  "  Joe  asked  involuntarily. 

He  rose  and  approached  nearer.  "Yes,"  he  an- 
swered. "I  think  I  met  her  in  Baltimore  —  a  Miss 
Hope  Forsyth,  is  it  not?" 

The  room  whirled  round  to  Joe's  dazed  brain. 
Hope  so  near !  Hope  given  back  tp  Stephen !  O, 
no  !  she  must  be  dreaming. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  began,  surprised  at  her  agitation  ; 
but  Joe  interrupted  him  with  an  eager,  tremulous 
voice,  — 

"  You  have  seen  her  !  Is  she  alive — safe  ?  Can  you 
find  her  again  for  me  ?  " 

"  If  it  is  the  lady  I  mean  —  " 

"When  did  you  see  her?" 

"First  in   April.     I  was  assistant  at   a  church   in 


222  STEPHEN   DANE. 

Baltimore.  She  came  to  stay  with  Dr.  Cutter ;  at 
least,  that  is  where  I  met  her.  But  I  heard  her  sing 
in  church,  one  morning,  and  such  a  glorious  voice  one 
never  forgets ; "  and  Mr.  Leighton's  eyes  wandered 
absently  out  on  the  porch,  his  memory  returning,  as  it 
often  did,  to  Hope  Forsyth. 

"  O  Hope  !  my  darling,  my  darling  !  "  Joe  rocked 
herself  to  and  fro,  and  repeated  the  words  softly,  while 
Mr.  Leighton,  strangely  puzzled,  glanced  from  her  to 
the  picture. 

"  Can  you  find  her  for  me  ? "  The  tone  and  face 
were  alike  sharp  and  eager. 

"I  don't  understand  —  " 

"  No  ;  how  should  you  ?  "  Joe  made  a  long  pause 
to  collect  her  scattered  thoughts.  What  should  she 
tell  this  stranger? 

"  She  was  the  ward  of  my  cousin  —  Mr.  Stephen 
Dane  —  a  sacred  charge  to  him.  I  sent  her  away; 
God  forgive  me  !.  I  had  something  else  to  tell  you  — 
to  ask  you.  There  was  a  tender  pity  in  your  voice 
that  day  at  the  funeral.  I've  dreamed  of  it  so  often  ! 
I  felt  that  I  wanted  some  one  to  be  just  so  tender  and 
pitiful  to  me,  for  the  way  is  thorny  and  tangled,  and  I 
cannot  find  any  straight  path.  It  will  not  be  long 
before  I'm  done  with  it  alL" 

"If  I  can  help  you  —  try  me,  be  frank  with  me. 
We  stumble  over  so  many  hard  things  in  life  ! " 

The  voice  found  its  way  to  her  heart.     For  a  mo- 


SAD   HEARTS.  223 

ment  she  struggled  with  tears;  then,  steadying  her 
tone,  she  resumed  :  — 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  all  to-day.  I  can  only  think  of 
her.  I  owe  her  some  reparation.  I  love  her  as  no 
one  ever  loved  a  sister  —  as  a  child  that  one  could  give 
one's  life  for.  There  was  a  strange,  terrible  mistake. 
I  told  her  what  was  not  true,  though  Heaven  knows  I 
believed  it  at  the  time.  It  sent  her  away — broke  her 
heart,  may  be.  And  now  I  can't  die  without  her. 
Will  you  go  for  her?" 

The  incoherent  and  agitated  manner  puzzled  Mr. 
Leighton  exceedingly.  Was  the  woman  quite  sane? 

As  if  she  read  his  thoughts,  she  clasped  her  hands 
imploringly.  The  .pain  and  weakness,  hidden  before, 
came  out  in  her  face.  The  deep,  sad  eyes  moved  him 
powerfully. 

"  Anything,"  he  said.  "  Command  me  to  the  utter- 
most. But  if  you  could  explain  this  a  little  to  me, — 
give  me  some  message  to  her,  — I  would  go  gladly." 

The  excitement  imparted  to  Joe  both  courage  and 
strength.  With  a  delicacy  one  would  hardly  have 
given  her  credit  for,  she  managed  to  make  Mr. 
Leighton  understand  all  of  the  story  that  was  neces- 
saiy.  The  faltering  voice  and  slow  tears  impressed 
him  with  the  truth  of  the  misunderstanding,  as  well 
as  her  sincerity.  And  during  his  three  months'  ac- 
quaintance with  Hope  Forsyth,  he  had  dimly  guessed 
at  some  hidden  sorrow. 


224  STEPHEN  DANE. 

After  this  Joe  was  in  no  mood  to  talk  about  herself. 
He  saw  it,  and  wisely  forbore  pressing  the  subject  that 
he  knew  well  must  be  so  near.  She  was  to  write  a 
letter  for  him  to  take,  and  he  was  to  add  to  it,  if  need 
be,  his  urgent  entreaties.  And  then  he  left  her. 

Poor  Joe !  Never  in  her  life  had  she  written  a 
letter.  This  was  scrawled  in  a  trembling  hand,  and 
blotted  by  many  tears.  More  than  once  heart  and 
strength  seemed  failing.  In  her  extremity  she  called 
upon  the  God  who  ever  lends  a  willing  ear.  If  she 
could  but  restore  Hope  to  Stephen  —  that  was  all  she 
asked  now. 

The  excitement  told  fearfully  upon  her.  Katy  had 
gone  with  the  note  to  Mr.  Leighton,  who  was  to  start 
that  evening,  and  Stephen  found  her  alone,  so  pros- 
trated that  he  was  alarmed. 

But  in  answer  to  his  fears  and  entreaties,  she  only 
said,  —  , 

"I  shall  be  better  to-morrow." 


JOE'S   ATONEMENT.  225 


xn. 

JOE'S  ATONEMENT. 

THERE  was  no  sleep  for  Josephine  Dane  that 
night.  Stephen  insisted  upon  watching  her  until 
after  midnight,  resolving  that  on  the  morrow  Mrs. 
Beswick  should  be  recalled.  She  lay  very  still,  the 
large  eyes  strained  up  to  the  ceiling,  and  scarcely 
moving.  But  there  was  something  awesome  about 
her,  as  there  is  to  every  human  soul  wavering  on  the 
shores  of  eternity.  His  conscience  was  very  tender, 
too.  He  thought  how  he  might  have  blessed  this  poor 
life,  so  barren  otherwise.  Had  he  indeed  pricked  him- 
self with  near  thorns,  in  reaching  for  the  far  roses,  not 
for  him,  alas  ! 

She  listened  to  his  breathing,  slow  and  strong  —  the 
full  pulses  of  manhood.  She  wondered  what  was  in 
his  heart  —  if  she  could  but  crawl  in  and  see !  To- 
morrow night  the  woman  he  loved  would  be  here. 
She  almost  longed  to  tell  him  now,  but  dared  not, 
some  subtile  fear  holding  her  back,  as  if  the  promised 


226  STEPHEN   DANE. 

good  was  safer  in  secrecy  —  a  childish  whim  which  we 
have  all  indulged. 

At  length  he  kissed  her  tenderly,  and  went  away :  it 
was  her  wish.  Then  she  waited  in  the  silence,  wonder- 
ing how  it  would  be  at  that  last  hour.  Did  God  take 
poor,  weary  souls  home  to  his  bosom?  She  was  so 
tired !  She  wanted  rest.  When  Hope  came  back, 
kissed  her,  and  forgave  her,  she  would  be  ready  to  go. 
It  did  not  seem  so  terrible  here  in  this  soft  silence. 
Just  as  if  God  drew  nearer  with  every  breath,  as  if 
she  could  trust  him,  at  last,  after  so  many  perplexing 
doubts  and  fears. 

Morning  dawned.  A  damp,  odorous  air  filled  the 
room.  Birds  came  and  warbled  in  the  shrubbery. 
Katy  was  astir,  singing  revival  melodies,  in  her  round, 
cheery  voice.  Plow  many  times  she  had  listened  to 
them !  Some  morning  she  would  sing  in  a  voice 
broken  by  sobs  —  Joe  would  not  be  there  to  hear. 
How  strange  to  think  of  everything  going  on  as  usual, 
and  she  asleep  under  the  ground !  Would  they  miss 
her?  A  little,  perhaps. 

There  was  a  clatter  of  dishes,  a  fragrance  of  warm 
biscuit,  and  still  the  hymn.  "Jordan's  stormy  banks," 
it  was  this  morning,  and  Katy's  fervor  and  negro 
dialect  gave  it  a  peculiar  interest  to  the  one  who  was 
shortly  to  see  the  "  fields  of  living  green." 

Stephen  entered,  grave  and  quiet,  and  studied  her 
curiously.  Some  great  change  had  come  over  her. 


JOE'S    ATONEMENT.  227 

"I  shall  go  for  Mrs.  Beswick,"  he  said.  "Katy  can- 
not give  you  the  attention  you  need." 

"  Not  to-day,  Stephen,"  she  pleaded. 

"  Why  not  to-day  ?  " 

"-It  is  my  wish.  You  have  spoiled  me  by  indul- 
gence. After  to-day  you  may  do  as  you  like.  Nay,  I 
am  no  worse." 

';  You  do  not  look  as  if  you  had  slept  at  all." 

Joe  only  smiled. 

Stephen  lingered  far  into  the  morning,  performing 
many  kind  little  offices  with  the  grace  and  patience  of 
a  woman.  Only  urgent  business  took  him  away  at 
length. 

Joe  seemed  in  a  strange  dream.  Would  Hope  really 
come  back  to  her?  Dying,  she  had  said  in  her  note. 
O,  what  if  she  should  not  live  to  see  the  day  close ;  to 
look  once  more  into  those  dear  eyes  !  For  now  that  it 
was  coming  so  near,  she  grew  almost  faithless  of  the 
rapture. 

Some  time  after  noon  she  begged  Katy  to  dress  her, 
and  carry  her  down  stairs,  having  made  several  ineffec- 
tual attempts  herself.  The  white  wrapper  and  the  scar- 
let ribbons  again. 

"  Is  the  minister  comin',  Miss  Joe  ?  "  Katy  asked. 

"Sonte  one  will  come,"  Joe  answered,  faintly,  crowd- 
ing down  her  precious  secret ;  and  Katy  was  awed  by 
a  sense  of  mystery  she  could  not  comprehend.' 

The  lounge  was  wheeled  over  to  the  window,  for  it 
15 


228  STEPHEN   DANE. 

seemed  to  Joe,  every  few  moments,  as  if  she  should  stifle. 
Then  she  was  left  alone  with  Hope's  little  prayer-book 
in  her  hand.  There,  on  the  fly-leaf,  was  written,  in  a 
girlish  style,  "Hope  Vennard."  Joe  kissed  the  name 
with  reverent  humility.  O  !  would  she  come  ? 

A  whole  hour  to  wait.  Through  the  swaying  vines 
were  sifted  grains  of  golden  sunshine.  Troops  of 
quaint  shadows  played  on  the  wall,  grasping  each  other 
with  rosy  fingers.  Now  and  then  a  gorgeous  butterfly 
settled  himself  lazily  just  in  sight,  or  droning  bees  made 
the  air  sleepy  with  their  monotonous  hum.  In  this 
quiet  street,  where  it  was  half  country,  you  could  hear 
every  passer-by,  and  Joe  listened,  with  ears  warily 
acute,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe.  Until  she  saw 
Hope,  it  must  appear  but  a  wild  dream. 

How  she  lived  through  that  strange  hour  she  could 
hardly  tell.  Every  sound  of  carriage  wheels,  every 
voice  in  converse  with  a  companion,  thrilled  her  with 
feverish  anxiety.  Her  pale  lips  trembled  as  she  caught 
her  breath.  At  some  moments  she  believed  herself 
dying,  for  even  the  sunlight  grew  dim,  and  stars  like 
those  of  heaven  floated  before  her  vision. 

Did  some  one  stop  ?  She  could  not  remember  cleai'ly. 
Katy  plodding  through  the  hall,  and  jerking  back  the 
night-latch  with  a  sharp  click,  a  scream  of  surprise,  a 
confusion  of  voices.  'Would  they  never  enter  ?  Every- 
thing was  blurred  and  indistinct.  She  seemed  floating 
miles  and  miles  away  from  all  those  she  had  ever  known. 


JOE'S   ATONEMENT.  229 

A  flutter  and  a  fragrance  in  the  atmosphere  of  the 
room.  A  golden  light,  a  sweet,  sad  pathetic  cry,  — 

"  O,  Joe  !  dear,  dear  Joe  !  " 

Even  in  her  wavering  between  the  two  lives,  Joe 
felt  the  clasp  of  the  soft  arms,  the  rain  of  tender  kisses, 
tenderer  tears ;  she  heard  the  touching  voice,  and  was 
content  to  lie  still  many  moments,  steeped  in  blissful 
sensations.  When  she  opened  her  eyes,  Hope  was 
looking  at  her,  and  they  two  were  alone. 

"You  will  forgive  me?"  Joe  said,  softly.  WI  was 
wrong.  Such  a  terrible  wrong !  and  to  be  believed 
years  against  one,  against  him !  As  soon  as  I  heard 
where  you  were,  I  sent.  I  could  not  die  in  peace  with- 
out you.  Every  inch  of  my  flesh,  every  pulse  of  my 
brain  and  nerves,  longed  for  you.  It  has  been  slow 
starvation." 

"If  you  are  glad  to  have  me  back,  that  is  enough. 
For  the  past,  let  it  go." 

"No,  it  is  not  enough.  Do  you  think  I  could  have 
been  so  selfish,  longing  to  enter  heaven's  gate,  and  yet 
not  willing  to  make  all  the  reparation  in  my  power? 
And  it  seems  so  strange  !  Just  when  I  was  willing  to 
turn  to  God,  he  brought  me  so  near  you.  Stephen 
searched  in  New  York,  he  told  me." 

Hope  trembled  at  the  mention  of  the  name,  and  hid 
her  face  on  Joe's  breast. 

"  Dear,  he  loved  you  so  !  Now  that  I  have  given 
you  back  to  him,  I  am  quite  content  to  die.  You  will 


230  STEPHEN  DANE. 

forgive  him  his  father's  deed  —  the  poor  old  man  did 
not  mean  to  commit  such  an  awful  crime.  Why  should 
it  be  remembered  against  one  so  generous  and  good  as 
Stephen?  Surely  he  has  borne  enough  already." 

"O,  don't  think  of  that,  Joe.  When  I  went  away, 
believing  him  guilty,  I  forgave  him.  Many  an  hour  I 
have  wanted  to  crawl  back,  ever  so  abjectly,  and  com- 
fort him.  I  was  so  sorry  for  what  he  had  to  bear.  I 
tried  to  fancy  him  happy  in  —  " 

"Not  in  anything  I  could  give  him,  Hope.  I  was 
wild  that  night.  I  was  tortured  by  a  hungry  fiend.  I 
•was  willing  the  whole  world  should  sit  in  sackcloth,  so 
that  I  but  had  his  love.  And  I  thought  he  had  no  right 
to  yours.  O,  Hope,  why  does  God  give  women  hearts 
to  love,  and  then  bring  only  husks  to  satisfy  them  ?  It 
seems  so  hard  !  I  wanted  some  one  to  be  tender  to  me  ; 
I  wanted  little  children  to  climb  my  knees,  and  kiss  my 
lips.  God  filled  me  up  with  human  feelings.  He  did 
not  bestow  upon  me  any  beauty  to  be  proud  of,  any 
mind  to  cultivate,  any  broad  views  and  longings  for  the 
good  of  my  fellow-creatures.  He  made  me  dark  and 
narrow,  and  placed  just  one  star  in  my  way,  and  my 
weary,  trembling  feet  followed  it.  Was  it  so  very 
wrong?  I  get  confused.  I  can't  seem  to  distinguish 
clearly.  And  now  He  is  going  to  take  me  home.  AVill 
any  one  love  me  in  heaven  ?  " 

Hope  was  sobbing,  her  wet  face  against  Joe's. 

"  When  I  am  gone  I  don't  want  you  to  blame  Ste- 


JOE'S  ATONEMENT.  231 

phen,  or  let  any  thought  of  this  come  between  your 
love.  He  gave  me  all  he  could.  God  made  him  better 
and  grander.  I  could  have  staid  in  Tregony  all  my 
life,  and  moiled  with  its  dull  and  uneventful  ways. 
Stephen's  soul  would  have  starved.  I  could  not  have 
supplied  his  wants.  I  know  it  now.  We  don't  love 
people  from  will,  nor  duty,  only  so  far  as  our  duty 
towards  them  lies.  He  offered  to  make  me  his  wife. 
It  was  good  and  noble  in  him ;  but  I  knew  well  he 
had  never  sinned  against  me.  When  we  were  boy 
and  girl  there  was  some  childish  talk  ;  since  then  I  have 
been  a  sister  to  him.  That  was  the  strongest  feeling 
I  could  create  in  him.  But  a  man  with  a  great, 
hungry  soul  needs  some  one  who  will  fill  it.  And 
you,  with  your  youth,  your  beauty,  your  rich,  winsome 
nature  —  " 

"  O,  don't,  don't,  Joe.  Every  word  stabs  me  like  a 
knife  !  Your  love  was  better  than  mine.  It  lived 
through  all  that  dark,  horrible  time ;  it  did  not  fear 
disgrace ;  it  was  so  strong  and  resolute.  And  I  like 
it  because  it  had  the  courage  to  fight  that  night.  Mine 
was  so  weak,  it  failed  at  the  first  blow  —  a  very  cow- 
ard ! " 

"  Is  it  dead,  Hope  ?  Tell  me  that ! "  And  Joe, 
raising  her  face,  looked  steadily  into  it. 

"Thank  God,"  she  said,  softly,  "that  I  have  not 
murdered  any  one's  soul.  I  shall  go  to  God  weak  and 
empty-handed,  but  not  stained  with  that  sin.  You  love 


232  STEPHEN  DANE. 

Lira  still,  Hope.  It  is  right.  I  have  brought  you 
back  —  given  you  to  him  again." 

"No,  Joe.  And  yet  it  is  not  from  any  fault  of 
yours.  He  almost  told  me  the  story  that  morning  be- 
fore he  asked  my  love.  And  I  said,  blindly  and  igno- 
rantly  enough,  that  one  could  forgive,  that  one  could 
even  love,  after  such  an  injury.  When  it  came  to  me, 
you  see  I  failed  miserably.  He  would  never  believe 
me,  never  trust  me  again." 

"  But  for  my  claim  you  would  not  have  gone  away." 

"I  might." 

"No.  It  was  my  mistake,  my  evil  passion  and  jeal- 
ousy. And  I  shall  not  believe  myself  forgiven  until 
you  promise,  when  the  time  comes,  you  will  not  let  any 
pride,  any  word  that  might  be  said,  keep  you  apart. 
You  will  do  for  your  love  what  I  would  have  done  for 
mine.  It  is  a  better  and  worthier  one.  Promise  !  " 

"I  will,"  Hope  said,  "if  so  be  that  he  should  love 
me  again." 

"  He  has  never  ceased.  He  will  not  have  to 
begin." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by  sobs. 
Presently  Joe  said,  — 

"What  of  all  this  time,  Hope?  Where  have  you 
been?" 

"I  made  a  confidant  of  one  of  my  teachers.  It  was 
not  necessary  to  tell  her  the  whole  story,  only  that  there 
was  an  urgent  reason  for  my  leaving  the  city  with  the 


JOE'S   ATONEMENT.  233 

utmost  secrecy.  She  had  been  applied  to  not  a  week 
before  for  a  governess.  Dr.  Cutter's  sister,  living 
on  the  eastern  shore  of  Maryland,  required  one. 
So  she  sent  me  to  Dr.  Cutter.  This  Mrs.  Say  res 
was  expected  on  a  visit;  consequently  I  remained  in 
his  family  eight  or  ten  days.  Their  head  singer  in 
church  was  ill,  and  on  Sunday  I  supplied  her  place. 
Once  the  hymn  was  — "  Guide  me,  O,  thou  great 
Jehovah."  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  sang,  I  felt  so 
weak,  so  forlorn  and  desolate,  and  that  was  so  sweet  a 
prayer.  I  must  have  put  my  whole  soul  in  it.  They 
made  me  stay.  Dr.  Cutter  thought,  with  such  a  voice, 
I  was  foolish  to  do  anything  but  sing.  He  was  so 
kind,  so  good  !  I  told  him  much  of  my  life,  and  why 
I  wished  for  quiet,  retirement.  I  had  taken  the  name 
of  Forsyth,  fancying  that  Stephen,  knowing  my  dis- 
like to  it,  would  be  less  likely  to  suspect  my  using  it. 
I  was  a  good  deal  frightened  at  first,  and  lived  in 
daily  dread.  But  by  degrees  a  feeling  of  safety  came. 
I  wanted  to  think  he  had  forgotten  me,  and  that  you 
were  happy.  I  did  not  dream  of  your  being  ill.  You 
have  suffered  for  me." 

"  I  was  sick  when  you  went  away.  I  mended  some, 
but  the  cough  staid.  And"  I  wanted  you." 

"Thank  you,  dear.  It  is  so  good  to  come  back! 
And  that  you  should  have  seen  Mr.  Leighton  !  How 
strangely  it  has  all  come  about.  You  will  get  well 
now,  Joe." 


234  STEPHEN   DANE. 

"  No.  It  is  best.  I  don't  mind.  Only  if  God  will 
hold  me  in  his  strong  arms  at  the  last,  so  that  I  shall 
not  be  afraid.  His  love  will  make  up  for  all  in  the 
other  country.  And  now  you  must  go  to  your  room 
and  rest  a  little.  After  that  I  shall  claim  you,  but  it 
will  not  be  for  long." 

IJope  was  glad  to  go.  Her  dear  old  familiar  room  ! 
Not  an  article  of  furniture  displaced.  Here,  in  this 
little  drawer,  the  pearls  Stephen  had  given  her.  It 
seemed  an  age  since  that  happy  day  when  she  was 
seventeen.  Every  sight  brought  fresh  tears. 

Katy  had  received  her  orders  to  send  Stephen  im- 
mediately to  Joe,  without  a  word  of  comment.  He 
was  quite  late ;  but  at  length  she  heard  his  step  upon 
the  porch,  for  he  generally  came  up  the  garden  path. 
He  glanced  in  the  window,  and  then  entered. 

"You  are  worse,"  he  said,  anxiously,  looking  at  her 
flushed  and  swollen  face.  "  You  have  been  crying. 
O,  Joe  !  you  punish  me  sorely.  Why  will  you  not 
let  me  make  you  happy?" 

"  I  am  happy  now.  Tears  are  not  always  a  sign  of 
misery.  I  have  atoned  for  that  old,  black  treachery 
and  ingratitude.  I  have  brought  Hope  back  to  you, 
Stephen.  She  is  in  this  house." 

He  started,  quivering  in  every  nerve.  A  strange, 
eager  light  flashed  into  his  eyes,  and  then  died  out. 

"  Where  did  you  find  her?     Are  you  not  dreaming?" 

Joe  steadied  her  voice  to  tell  the  story.     There  were 


JOE'S  ATONEMENT.  235 

long  pauses  and  broken  sobs.  Stephen's  tears  fell 
silently,  and  his  heart  went  out  to  this  poor  girl  as  it 
never  had  before. 

"  If  ever  any  thought  was  selfish  or  wrong,  any  deed 
unjust,  you  have  nobly  redeemed  it  all,  my  poor  Joe," 
he  said  in  answer  to  her  pleading.  "  If  any  prayers 
could  restore  health  and  life  —  " 

"No,"  she  interrupted  him.  "Don't  pray  for  that 
now.  Only  love  me  to  the  end." 

He  kissed  her  with  a  full  heart. 

"You  will  see  her  first  alone?" 

"No."  Stephen  shivered  perceptibly.  "Here,  in 
this  room  —  when  she  can  come  down." 

Joe  made  no  further  comment.  She  was  learning  a 
rare  delicacy. 

Katy  was  despatched  for  Hope.  The  bewildered 
servant  could  hardly  realize  she  was  in  the  house 
again,  and  still  Hope  Vennard. 

She  entered  tremblingly.  Joe  hid  her  face  that  she 
might  not  read  any  secret.  But  there  was  none,  or 
else  they  did  not  betray  it.  Stephen  walked  up  to 
Hope  with  a  grave,  steady  step,  and  held  out  his 
hand,  simply  uttering,  — 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  ! " 

The  dignity  that  was  well  nigh  coldness  restored 
Hope.  She  gave  him  a  greeting  more  self-possessed 
than  one  could  have  expected,  though  she  betrayed 
traces  of  her  recent  agitation. 


236  STEPHEN   DANE. 

Was  this  really  Hope?  he  asked  himself  after  the 
surprise  had  subsided.  For  the  girl  had  merged  into 
a  lovely  woman.  Society,  and  the  fact  of  her  having 
been  cast  upon  her  own  resources,  had  developed  her 
rapidly.  She  seemed  taller  and  more  mature ;  in  every 
movement  an  indefinable  grace,  in  every  feature  a 
glow,  a  warmth,  a  vividness  that  arrested  one,  and 
held  him  by  a  magnetic  spell.  She  had  gone  beyond 
Stephen  with  this  one  bound.  Beside  her,  he  felt  him- 
self old  and  worn.  Her  freshness  was  like  the  first 
dawn ;  he  was  wasting  into  gray  twilight.  If  ever  he 
had  dared  to  dream,  it  was  over  now.  She  was  not 
for  him.  How  had  he  ever  been  so  blind  and  weak  ! 

It  was  strange  how  soon  they  fell  into  their  old 
habits.  I  think  both  Hope  and  Stephen  made  an 
effort  for  Joe's  sake.  He  seemed  to  glide  naturally 
into  those  elder-brother  ways  which  made  Hope  at 
once  at  home.  He  did  not  touch  upon  any  incident 
or  difference,  —  he  knew  Hope  and  Joe  must  have 
had  their  mutual  explanations,  and  was  satisfied.  It 
was  too  sore  a  matter  for  him  to  talk  over  at  present. 

When  Stephen  carried  Joe  up  to  her  room  that 
night,  Hope  went  with  her. 

"I  am  going  to  be  your  nurse  now,"  she  said.  "I 
am  young  and  strong,  and  cannot  be  easily  fatigued." 

Joe  gave  her  a  grateful  smile. 

The  two  girls  rested  in  each  other's  arms.  Joe 
could  not  sleep,  and  Hope  did  not  wish  to.  Now  and 


JOE'S   ATONEMENT.  237 

then  some  tender  word  passed  between  them,  or  a 
long,  lingering  kiss. 

"  Only  for  a  little  while,"  Joe  said ;  but  Hope 
shrank  from  the  end. 

Mr.  Leighton  called  the  next  day.  Hope  had 
beautified  the  little  room,  for  Joe  was  too  ill  to  rise. 
There  was  something  saintly  growing  up  in  her  face, 
life  immortal  blossoming  in  it,  to  make  hei  meet  for 
the  other  country. 

When  Hope  would  have  left  the  apartment,  Joe 
detained  her  by  a  clasp  of  the  hand. 

"You  have  found  peace,"  Mr.  Leighton  said,  in  a 
low  tone. 

"Yes,  and  rest.  It  is  so  good  !  Only  I  don't  know 
whether  I  dare  believe  or  not.  I  have  been  so  foolish 
and  ignorant  all  my  life !  I  could  not  see  the  path 
God  made  for  me  until  now.  I  didn't  know  I  needed 
His  love  until  all  others  had  failed  me." 

"  As  many  of  us  do.  We  trample  on  thorns  that 
pierce  us,  never  dreaming  there  is  a  better  way,  until, 
in  the  midst  of  our  darkness  and  pain,  we  cry  unto 
Him,  and  He  shows  us  the  light." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  musingly,  "there  isn't  hap- 
piness enough  for  us  all  here.  And  to  those  who  sit 
in  the  shadow  God  comes  at  last." 

He  knew  then  that  somewhere  there  had  been  a  void 
in  this  woman's  life,  a  hunger  and  weariness.  The 
large  sad  eyes,  wandering  out  of  the  open  window  to 


238  STEPHEN  DANE. 

the  soft  blue  beyond,  told  a  wordless  story.  And  the 
touching  pathos  of  her  words,  "There  isn't  happiness 
enough  for  us  all  here." 

"We  cannot  penetrate  God's  mysteries,"  he  said 
with  sweet  seriousness.  "  Why  some  are  blessed,  and 
all  their  days  golden  ones,  why  others  are  made  to 
look  on,  to  see  the  cup  of  joy  pass  by  them,  and  never 
quench  their  thirsty  lips  in  the  sparkling  draught." 

"He  means  it,  you  think?  So  that  when  one  goes 
all  through  the  desert,  he  is  not  to  look  back  with  weak 
regrets  that  he  did  not  take  some  other  path.  That 
God  directs  our  ways  ?  " 

"Yes.  Many  sorrows  and  needs  we  bring  upon 
ourselves,  but  I  do  not  believe  all  could  have  been 
avoided." 

"Thank  you,"  she  returned,  softly.  "And  when  we 
take  these  poor,  worn  fragments  to  Him,  He  will  gather 
them  with  a  tender  pity.  Pray  that  He  may  do  this  for 
me,  and  that  I  may  be  content  in  having  missed 
much  brightness  that  comes  to  others." 

Mr.  Leighton  prayed.  Not  mere,  meaningless 
words,  but  earnest,  vital  petitions.  It  seemed  to 
Joe  as  if  he  must  have  known  her  heart. 

One  day  passed  much  like  another,  Joe  growing 
weaker,  but  with  that  touching  sweetness,  different 
from  anything  in  her  former  life.  She  did  not  shrink 
from  the  past,  but  lingered  over  n  with  Hope,  re- 
membering some  half-forgotten  scene  or  word  that 


JOE'S  ATONEMENT.  239 

was  pleasant  to  think  upon.  Hope  learned  so  much 
of  Stephen's  early  life  in  this  connection.  Old  days  at 
Tregony,  dim  wants  that  began  to  dawn  upon  him, 
fond  loves  for  nature  —  the  saucer  of  flowers  that  used 
to  stand  on  the  window-ledge,  the  books  he  used  to 
read,  .and  above  all,  his  tenderness  for  his  poor  old 
father.  There  must  have  been  some  heroic  element  in 
Joe's  nature,  stunted  perhaps  by  the  coarse  blood  she 
had  inherited.  For  having  once  made  her  sacrifice, 
there  was  no  further  moan.  She  even  ceased  to 
question. 

"  I  think,"  she  said  one  day  to  Hope,  "  that  as  we 
come  nearer  to  death,  God  takes  away  all  these  pld 
longings,  and  puts  himself  in  their  stead.  I  used  to 
fancy  it  would  be  so  hard  to  die  without  ever  having 
known  any  real  happiness.  But  nearing  the  last,  we 
look  over  life  and  find  so  many  bright  spots !  Our 
days  were  fuller  of  gladness  than  we  dreamed.  And 
for  all  we  have  missed  here,  He  will  give  us  countless 
blessings  beyond.  After  He  sent  you  back  to  me,  I 
had  nothing  to  ask." 

Hope  kissed  her  with  tearful  eyes. 

And  so  she  drifted  nearer  and  nearer  the  unknown 
sea.  September  suns  waxed  and  waned,  the  breath  of 
ripening  orchards  was  wafted  to  them.  Flowers  every 
day — Stephen  took  care  of  that.  Tenderest  care, 
most  devoted  love.  Restful  hours  when  softest  silence 
brooded  over  all.  Katy  singing  lower  and  sadder, 


240  STEPHEN  DANE. 

Stephen  lingering  about,  watching  with  eyes  that 
thrilled  her.  For  she  was  coming  up  to  his  height. 
When  he  knew  her  again  as  an  angel,  they  would  be 
on  the  same  plane.  The  poor,  jealous,  tortured  heart 
was  satisfied  at  last. 

One  night  they  counted  her  pulses,  and  hung  over 
her  in  tender  agony,  not  daring  to  glance  at  each 
other.  Fainter,  fainter.  Smiles  dying  away.  Little 
quiverings  all  along  the  flesh,  sudden  graspings  of  the 
hand  when  some  dim  fear  overtook  her,  and  so  the 
soul  of  Josephine  Dane  passed  into  God's  keeping. 

Stephen  kissed  down  the  eyelids.  Did  they  sleep 
the  sweeter  for  it?  On  the  resurrection  morn  they 
will  open  with  clearer  vision,  and  she  shall  not  be 
ashamed  of  this  love  of  hers,  that  she  gladly  died  for. 
They  who  go  to  the  stake  are  not  the  only  martyrs. 

Hope  turned  blindly  away  with  one  low,  pitying 
cfy.  Stephen  took  her  in  his  arms,  his  strong  frame 
trembling  with  emotion.  But  something  within  him 
was  still  stronger  and  more  determined,  for  he  spoke 
not  a  word. 

You  know  how  a  house  seems  when  one  within  lies 
dead.  No  other  stillness  is  like  unto  it.  Voices  are 
lowered,  as  if  such  a  sleep  could  be  disturbed  I  Meals 
are  sent  away  untasted.  One  walks  hither  and  thither, 
searching  familiar  rooms  —  for  what  ?  It  is  hard  to 
believe  in  death.  As  if,  after  a  day's  sleep,  the  loved 
form  must  rise  again  and  fill  its  olden  place. 


JOE'S   ATONEMENT.  241 

Joe,  lying  coffined  in  the  drawing-room,  slept  peace- 
fully. The  face  fair  enough  now,  the  shining  hair 
smoothly  banded  back,  touched  by  no  hand  save 
Hope's,  who  had  dropped  tears  and  kisses  amid  its 
shining  folds.  Stephen  had  watched  her  labor  of  love, 
remembering  how  once  he  had  been  fretted  by  strag- 
gling ends.  It  would  never  annoy  any  one  again.  A 
few  buds  clustered  in  it,  and  drooped  upon  her  temple. 
On  her  breast  tuberoses  and  jasmine,  filling  the  room 
with  their  sorrowful  sweetness.  How  strange  that  this 
should  be  all  of  her  I  Thirty-two  years  ago  she  had 
gladdened  her  mother's  heart,  and  having  done  all  that 
God  appointed  for  her  to  do,  the  end  had  come. 

Can  we  believe  that  no  life,  no  atom  is  wasted ; 
that  God,  in  this  world  of  His,  has  room  for  all,  and 
work  for  all ;  that  these  knotty  problems  we  stumble 
over  are  mighty  truths ;  that  pain,  and  hunger,  and 
loss,  that  passionate  longings  and  wasted  youth,  are 
held  in  some  infinite  order,  and  made  to  evolve  His 
purpose  that  we  cannot  see,  but  only  grope  after  in 
some  blind  way,  when  a  sudden  wrench  of  agony  takes 
us  out  of  our  narrow  selves,  and  shows  us  that  the 
world  is  broader  than  we  knew,  that  this  life  is  but  the 
briefest  beginning? 


242  STEPHEN  DANE. 


XTTT. 

HOPE  AND  STEPHEN. 

HTMIEY  came  back  from  Laurel  Hill —  Hope, 
X  Stephen,  and  Katy.  The  day  had  been  soft 
and  hazy,  a  gray  under-roof  of  clouds,  floating  about 
the  heavens,  with  now  and  then  a  faint  ray  of  yellow 
sunshine.  The  wind  blew  inland  with  a  sort  of  sullen 
foreboding,  bringing  with  it  the  sad,  threatening  wail 
of  an  autumn  storm.  Yet,  just  at  sunset,  a  cold  glow 
came  up  in  the  western  sky,  a  chill  and  lonesome 
light. 

There  was  a  fire  in  the  sitting-room  grate,  a  tender, 
rosy  warmth  diffusing  itself.  As  they  went  thither 
after  night  closed  in,  both  Hope  and  Stephen  thought 
—  if  she  could  have  it  in  her  narrow  home ! 

Stephen  rolled  his  study  chair  to  its  olden  corner, 
and  glanced  into  the  slow-burning  coals.  Not  to  sec 
visions,  or  dream  dreams.  The  last  battle,  he  said 
to  himself. 

It  had  seemed  an  easy  enough  matter,  thinking  it 
over.  Yesterday  he  had  brought  home  from  the  bank 


HOPE    AND    STEPHEN.  243 

Hope's  little  fortune,  principal  and  interest.  She  was 
beginning  a  new  and  better  life  than  any  he  could 
make  for  her.  Young  hearts  would  cluster  about  her, 
love  in  abundance  would  be  offered  —  not  truer  than 
his  —  he  was  not  morbid  in  his  self-abasement  —  but 
more  of  her  kind,  bright  with  youth  and  hope.  She 
would  go  away  and  forget  this  dark  episode.  In  the 
glad  existence  that  dawns  for  seventeen,  it  would  fall 
off  like  a  shadow.  It  was  all  right  enough.  He  had 
no  moan  or  complaint  to  make.  Even  if  she  could 
have  overlooked  that  terrible  stain,  he  was  too  old  and 
grave  for  her  now.  It  was  well  she  had  learned  this  in 
the  past  months.  It  made  him  braver  to  bear  all  the 
solitariness  of  these  dreary  days  to  come. 

For  even  if  she  would  have  staid  here  with  him,  as 
her  guardian,  lie  could  not  stay.  Better  to  fight  out 
the  want  and  gnawing  alone,  than  daily  sit  at  a  feast 
of  sweetness  he  must  never  taste.  He  was  but  a  man, 
and  could  better  deny  himself  wholly,  than  linger  on 
this  dangerous  brink. 

He  glanced  furtively  at  her.  The  drooping  figure 
with  its  pliant  grace ;  the  countenance  of  excjuisite 
beauty,  for  all  its  sorrow  and  tears ;  the  slender  hand 
with  the  one  ring  he  had  given  her  years  ago.  Why 
did  she  wear  it?  The  small  foot  with  its  resetted 
slipper,  basking  there  in  the  crimson  fire-light.  What 
foolish  dreams  he  had  cherished  about  them  all ! 
Hand  and  ring,  face  that  was  to  smile  on  him,  little 
16 


244  STEPHEN   DANE. 

foot  that  was  to  patter  through  halls  while  he  sat 
within  hearing  distance.  How  idly  sweet !  To  be 
buried  down  deep,  as  they  had  that  day  buried  Joe, 
poor  Joe,  who  had  loved  him.  Ah,  her  memory 
would  always  be  fragrant  in  his  heart ! 

Moment  after  moment  of  silence  and  indecision. 
Why  was  he  so  wretchedly  weak ! 

He  rose  at  length.  Hope  gave  a  little  start  and 
looked  up  —  one  more  such  glance  would  have  un- 
nerved him.  He  crossed  to  the  escritoire,  opened  it, 
and  took  therefrom  a  package.  He  came  and  laid 
it  on  the  table  beside  her. 

"I  want  you  to  take  this,"  he  began  huskily.  "It  is 
yours.  She  told  you  that  I  came  in  possession  of  five 
hundred  dollars  belonging  to  your  father.  Ten  years 
ago  that  was.  I  want  you  to  believe  that  if  I  could 
have  returned  it  then  in  safety,  I  should  have  done  so. 
Afterwards  I  used  it,  but  to  me  it  was  always  a  most 
sacred  trust.  To  have  added  to  it  would  have  satis- 
fied me  better,  but  I  refrain  from  placing  you  under 
the  slightest  obligation.  I  desire  you  to  be  perfectly 
free." 

There  was  a  constriction  in  Hope's  throat,  a  dryness 
in  her  tongue,  that  rendered  an  immediate  answer  im- 
possible. Stephen  passed  around  to  his  seat  and  looked 
into  the  fire  again.  A  long,  dreary  silence  followed. 

Hope's  first  sensation  was  a  prideful  despair. 
Stephen  did  not  love  her  —  never  had,  she  said, 


HOPE    AND    STEPHEN.  245 

with  the  hasty  unbelief  of  youth.  He  did  not  even 
care  to  have  her  stay  —  he  wanted  to  sever  every  bond. 

O,  secret  agony  of  a  loving  heart !  O,  blind  eyos, 
that  refuse  to  see  ;  dumb  hands,  that  will  not  reach  out 
for  a  gift  better  than  gold.  She  sat  there  stunned, 
pained  in  every  nerve.  Not  to  have  his  love,  when  it 
was  all  she  craved.  Poor  Joe,  lying  in  your  grave, 
every  pang  of  yours  she  went  over  with  exceeding 
pity.  Not  to  be  loved  again  —  why,  it  was  slow 
torture,  death ! 

Some  way  she  came  out  to  calmer  thoughts.  The 
blur  of  agony  grew  less  dense.  Why  should  he  love 
her,  when  she  had  so  cruelly  failed  him  before  ?  He 
supposed  her  vindictive,  unrelenting,  with  no  pity  for 
his  father's  fatal  moment  of  weakness.  In  a  vague, 
general  manner  she  could  moralize  on  sin  and  forgive- 
ness ;  she  could  tell  easily  enough  what  others  should 
do,  but  the  test  applied  to  herself,  the  case  brought 
home,  and  she  had  failed  —  turned  coldly  aside.  He 
must  despise  her ! 

She  went  back  to  that  terrible  night  when  she  had 
first  believed  him  guilty  of  two  foul  crimes.  Ah,  how 
she  had  wronged  him.  She  ought  to  have  stood  up 
boldly  for  the  man  she  loved.  When  Joe  said  disgrace 
or  a  felon's  cell  could  not  have  dimmed  her  affection, 
she,  so  beloved,  should  have  said,  "  Until  I  hear 
from  his  own  lips  that  he  has  sinned,  I  shall  think  him 
innocent." 


246  STEPHEN  DANE. 

To  be  so  miserably  weak  in  the  most  important  mo- 
ment of  life !  To  fail  when  failure  was  but  another 
name  for  a  perfect  wreck  of  love  ! 

He  had  given  her  no  opportunity  to  express  her  con- 
trition. From  the  first  evening  he  had  found  her  there, 
his  demeanor  had  been  so  calm,  so  studiously  polite,  so 
frank  and  near  in  all  little  daily  trifles,  so  distant  in 
this  one  important  point  I  He  had  called  her  Hope, 
she  had  called  him  Stephen,  just  as  in  the  old  days.  A 
careless  observer  would  not  imagine  they  had  ever  been 
separated. 

This  was  the  barrier  it  was  so  difficult  to  surmount. 
He  had  not  failed  in  any  duty,  in  any  proper  tender- 
ness. All  she  could  complain  of  was  the  deeper,  un- 
derlying fact  that  love  between  them  was  forever  at 
an  end. 

Was  it  really  ?  Did  people  cast  off  these  most  sa- 
cred ties  with  the  ease  one  discarded  an  old  garment,  or 
threw  away  faded  flowers?  If  Stephen,  so  strong,  so 
single-hearted  in  other  matters,  so  faithful  in  his  affec- 
tions and  duties,  had  loved  her  last  March,  he  must 
love  her  still.  If  he  was  willing  then  to  reach  out  his 
hand  for  the  cup  of  happiness  God  brought  to  him, 
would  he  refuse  it  now  if  it  came  through  human  inter- 
vention ? 

She  sat  there  thrilled  and  startled  by  a  wonderful 
vision.  He  would  never  ask  again.  What  if  she  went 
and  laid  her  hand  in  his  —  said  one  word  ? 


HOPE   ASD   STEPHEN.  247 

A  hot  glow  of  crimson  shot  up  into  her  face.  Why  ? 
Was  a  woman's  pure  and  honorable  love  any  disgrace 
to  her?  Would  she  be  less  womanly  to  confess  it? 
She  had  promised  Joe,  if  ever  the  right  moment  came  ; 
and  now  it  was  here  —  the  last  chance.  For  when  they 
separated  this  time,  it  would  be  final. 

If  he  still  loved  her,  she  said,  weakly  at  first,  draw- 
ing her  breath  with  a  gasp.  O,  she  knew  he  did. 
There  was  not  an  atom  of  her  whole  frame  but  re- 
sponded to  this  consciousness.  Was  it  true  that  she 
had  only  to  speak  and  all  would  be  hers  again  —  plen- 
teousness  instead  of  starvation? 

The  light  seemed  to  burn  dimly,  the  clock  ticked 
slower,  the  room  was  so  solemnly  still.  She  put  out 
one  foot,  she  moved  her  arm,  as  if  to  assure  herself 
volition  was  still  hers.  It  was  such  a  distance  from 
here  over  to  Stephen's  chair  ! 

Hope  rose,  swaying  and  undecided.  Stephen  never 
stirred,  but  his  breath  came  with  a  slow  terror  —  some- 
thing that  positively  magnetized  him.  The  awful  spell 
of  a  proud  conscience  holding  the  heart  in  thrall  past 
deliverance,  until  death.  She  was  going  out  of  the 
room.  At  the  door  she  would  pause  to  say  "Good 
night,"  and  leave  him  forever  alone. 

Like  a  blind  man  groping  his  way,  she  went  slowly 
along.  I  am  not, sure  but  her  eyes  were  dim  with  tears  ; 
her  very  heart  seemed  to  die  within  her.  If  she  had 
loved  him  a  little  less,  she  must  have  failed. 


248  STEPHEN    DANE. 

She  came  around  behind  his  chair ;  she  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  shoulder.  The  trembling  lips  made  two 
or  three  ineffectual  efforts,  and  then  murmured,  "  Ste- 
phen !  " 

The  very  breath  seemed  to  strangle  him.  Because 
he  wanted  to  clasp  her  to  his  heart,  and  fill  the  face 
with  hungry  kisses,  even  with  the  unavailing  transport 
of  despair ;  he  roused  every  nerve  into  a  state  of  des- 
perate control,  and  said,  in  a  voice  so  deathly  calm  that 
it  sounded  cold  to  her,  — 

"Well?" 

How  her  hand  trembled !  He  felt  it  through  his 
coat.  Darling  little  fingers,  soft  and  white  —  for  some 
other  man's  fond  caresses.  For  if  he  so  much  as  cast  his 
eyes  around  to  them,  the  passion  of  his  manhood  must 
find  a  voice. 

"  Stephen,  you  think  we  are  quite  free  of  all  obliga- 
tions to  one  another  ?  " 

It  was  not  what  she  had  intended  to  say,  not  the  little 
speech  she  had  been  studying  over  yonder  in  her  chair. 

"Yes.-  Don't  let  any  thought  of  this  ever  burden 
you  in  the  days-  to  come.  That  night  when  I  found 
you,  so  long  ago,  I  meant  to  make  your  life  blessed  and 
happy.  In  all  the  places  where  I  have  failed,  forgive 
me.  God  knows  how  true  and  earnest  my  heart  \vas." 

Not  a  movement  on  his  part.  The  qyes  still  studying 
the  fire,  the  hands  lying  listless  in  his  lap. 

"Stephen,  you  can  make  me  happier  !  " 


HOPE    AND    STEPHEN.  249 

He  reached  out  curiously  for  something,  with  a  dim 
sensation  that  ha  should  never  find  it.  Close  to  his 
heart,  witfi  a  low  cry,  it  came  —  a  golden  head,  a  sweet, 
pleading  young  face,  its  blushes  hidden. 

"  No,  you  don't  mean  it,  Hope  !  Think  a  little.  My 
poor,  stained  life  —  " 

His  voice  was  broken  and  tremulous.  His  strong 
frame  quivered  with  intense  emotion. 

"I  mean  that  I  love  you.  Ever  since  that  day  in 
March.  But  I  was  so  weak  I  O,  Stephen,  if  you  will 
forgive  those  miserable  doubts  !  " 

The  words  came  between  passionate  sobs. 

"Hope,"  —  his  voice  was  very  tender,  though  he 
dared  not  put  in  it  the  love  surging  through  him  like  a 
mighty  sea,  —  "we  will  not  rush  madly  into  another 
bond.  I  want  you  to  look  closely  into  this  matter.  It 
is  life  and  death  to  me  now.  I  am  not  clearly  sure  that 
I  have  any  right  to  your  love." 

"  Not  when  I  give  it  to  you  ?  " 

Such  a  sad,  pathetic  cry  !  No  wonder  he  drew  her 
nearer  to  the  heart,  beating  for  her  alone. 

"You  know  all — she  told  you?"  His  voice  was 
husky,  and  great  drops  of  anguish  stood  out  on  his 
forehead. 

"I  know  all.  How  you  suffered  for  another;  how 
you  carried  about  his  burden  —  was  patient  to  the  last 
moment,  and  how  you  strove  to  repair  his  sin.  But  the 
dumb  and  fearful  misery  of  those  days  and  nights  I  can 


250  STEPHEN    DANE. 

only  fancy ;  never  realize  to  the  full  extent  what  they 
were  to  you.  In  all  you  were  guiltless.  But  the  bit- 
terest pang  of  all  was  to  have  the  friends  you  loved 
distrust  you." 

"Yes,  it  was." 

She  never  knew  half  his  pain  and  agony  until  then. 
She  felt  so  utterly  abased  that  she  would  have  slidden 
down  on  her  knees  beside  him,  if  he  had  not  held  her 
so  tightly. 

"  Stephen,"  she  said,  brokenly,  "  if  my  love  can  make 
any  amends,  take  it,  use  it ;  not  as  a  holiday  thing,  to 
be  petted  and  pampered,  but  a  very  servant.  Let  it 
bear  your  burdens ;  let  it  watch  early  and  late ;  let  it 
toil  and  minister  to  you ;  and  even  then  it  cannot 
atone  for  the  cruel  past.  It  goes  down  to  the  very  dust 
at  your  feet,  humbled,  repentant  as  it  is  for  having 
failed  you  in  that  dread  hour.  Forgive  its  weakness, 
its  blindness. 

He  found  the  wet  face,  and  kissed  it.  He  laid  his 
cheek  against  the  golden  hair.  His  for  all  time,  right 
or  wrong. 

"I  was  a  coward  then,"  he  began,  fiercely.  "If  I 
had  told  you  the  whole  story  !  I  was  afraid  to  shock 
you.  I  never,  could  seem  to  determine  in  my  own  mind 
how  far  God  had  put  a  curse  of  blood  between  us,  how 
far  that  awful  stain  was  to  shadow  both  lives.  I  thought 
to  keep  it  out  of  yours.  It  seems  right  that  such 
deadly  sins  should  bring  some  punishment." 


HOPE   AND   STEPHEN.  251 

"Stephen,"  she  said,  softly,  "remember,  he  did  not 
mean  to  do  it.  It  was  not  a  moment  of  violent  pas- 
sion, even.  Joe  told  me  how  weak  and  wandering  he 
was.  One  can  forgive  an  accident  better  than  a  pre- 
meditated sin." 

"Yes.  And  I  believe  he  repented  to  the  utmost  pos- 
sibility of  his  poor  nature.  But  he  was  a  thief,  and  my 
father,  Hope.  And  before  that,  I  had  hated  Mr.  Ven- 
nard,  grudged  him  his  power,  his  wealth.  I  am  not 
sure  but  I  envied  him  you.  How  much  of  that  evil 
and  corrupt  blood  runs  in  my  veins  ?  "  and  he  gave  a 
shiver  of  disgust. 

"None,  Stephen,"  —  in  a  clear,  sweet  tone.  "God 
washed  it  out.  Do  you  suppose  those  years  of  tender 
care,  such  as  you  gave  your  father,  count  for  nothing 
in  His  eyes  ?  Do  you  suppose  that  to  have  saved  one 
little  child  from  want  and  misery  counts  for  nothing  in 
His  sight  who  watches  the  very  sparrows  ?  Shall  a  man 
be  more  unrelenting  than  God  ?  " 

"I  want  you  to  know  me  as  I  am.  Much  older  than 
you ;  worn  with  cares  ;  a  man  of  strong  passions,  who 
has  been  tried  and  tempted  as  but  few  are  ;  who  has  not 
always  been  true  to  the  manhood  God  stamped  upon 
him ;  who  has  failed  miserably,  and  struggled  again  ; 
who  has  been  cowardly  when  he  should  have  faced  the 
truth ;  who  has  weakly  shrunk  back  and  cried  out  with 
fear  when  God  placed  some  fresh  duty  in  his  way  —  " 

"And  I  take  him  just  as  he  is,  Stephen.     Not  from 


252  STEPHEN   DANE. 

pity,  or  any  sense  of  romantic  justice,  but  because  I 
love  him.  I  need  him.  For  the  two  who  have  gone 
to  God  we  can  trust  him  to  solve  all  intricate  questions 
of  where  accountability  rests.  We  have  nothing  to  do 
with  that  dark  path.  Our  way  shall  be  in  the  light." 

"  God  bless  you,"  he  said,  humbly.     "  My  Hope  !  " 

"  Yours  ; "  and  climbing  up  in  her  childish  fashion, 
she  twined  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 

They  both  thought  of  that  night  in  the  Foundery. 
It  seemed  as  if  love  must  have  sent  out  its  tender  roots 
then,  and,  through  shine  and  shower,  arrived  at  last  at 
blossoming. 

Afterwards  they  looked  this  great  joy  in  the  face, 
and  found  that  it  did  not  blind  them.  They  dared  to 
think  of  the  future ;  of  their  two  lives,  so  strangely 
blending  into  one ;  of  Stephen,  no  longer  burdened 
with  a  fearful  secret ;  of  the  old  stain  washed  out ;  all 
the  misunderstandings  cleared  up,  handed  over  in  God's 
keeping. 

"Poor  Joe!"  Hope  said,  softly.  "We  can  never 
blame  her  for  that  terrible  mistake,  since  it  has  brought 
us  to  a  truer  happiness.  Every  human  soul  has  its  work 
in  this  world." 

"It  is  my  punishment  that  she  loved  me  so  well.  I 
want  you  to  know,  Hope,  that  J  would  have  married 
her  at  the  last." 

"  She  told  me.     I  think  you  were  right,  Stephen.     I 


HOPE    AND    STEPHEN.  253 

wish  it  could  have  been.  But  through  those  later*  days 
she  was  so  changed  !  " 

"  If  we  could  see  what  God  meant  by  these  tangled 
paths  ! " 

"I  think  He  means  us  just  to  trust  Him.  His 
guidance  is  .unerring.  Up  in  heaven  to-night  she  is 
wiser  than  we,  for  she  knows  all.  And  God  will  be 
the  tenderer  to  her  because  there  were  so  many  thorns 
for  her  here.  She  is  our  one  memory,  Stephen,  of  all 
the  past,  and  laying  her  away  in  the  grave  does  not 
shut  out  her  love." 

"  O,  no,  no  ! " 

What  more?  Life's  problems  are  always  unfinished. 
When  a  strain  of  music  is  broken  off  in  the  middle,  we 
carry  it  about  in  our  hearts  for  days  together,  and  mar- 
vel at  fancied  sweetness.  Had  it  been  finished,  we 
might  have  forgotten  —  who  knows?  For  the  bud 
broken  on  the  stalk  we  have"  a  tender  pity ;  for  the  rose 
that  has  lived  its  day,  a  more  satisfied  feeling.  All 
here  must  be  partial  with.  us.  Each  soul  is  restricted 
to  its  own  wants. 

Bat  when  the  stone  is  rolled  away  on  the  morning  of 
the  resurrection,  we  shall  see  that  Heaven  has  kept  and 
harvested  all  these  mysteries  that  would  have  blinded 
our  wavering  eyes.  In  the  light  of  that  new  day  we 
shall  "know  as  we  are  known." 


